In My Memory Locked
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Despite separated by distance, Ophelia's love for her prince lives on. However, a long sought-after reunion may or may not be exactly what she wished for in the wake of a tragic event. A Hamlet and Ophelia short story.
1. Words

**A/N: **Sequel to _To Thine Own Self._ While not entirely necessary to understand this story, you might want to read the previous one for context. Many thanks to Nat and Amber for their editing, feedback and lots of encouragement! You are wonderful, ladies!

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**In My Memory Locked**

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'_**Tis in my memory lock'd,**_

_**And you yourself shall keep the key of it.**_

_**Hamlet. I. iii. 86-87.**_

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_I. Words _

_Spring has once again arrived at Elsinore. Perhaps it is childish of me to do so, but in the past months, I found myself willing the snows to melt, the air to warm, and the landscape to bloom. The first flowers have graced us with their presence now for several weeks. Winter is the cruellest season, when all is dead and dying. Spring brings me more joy than I could possibly describe – though, perhaps, in the hands of a poet, a description could be attached. _

_I fear I am still a young girl! The very first day of spring, I took several of the queen's handmaidens and we rode out to the rolling hills and pranced among the new blooms as though we were children. If only you could see it now. Though I know Elsinore's hills must be a sight long engraved in your vision, I wish you were here to see. But as the pages and manuscripts of Wittenberg demand your presence, I must decipher a new way to illuminate Elsinore's landscape for you. _

_I believe I have found such a way! In the words of someone very dear to me: words, words, words! _

_I should very much like to relate those "words" to my father, one day. I do not doubt that he will find them amusing at all. Over the winter months, I readily discovered that my father lacks a sense of humour and I have decided to embark on a mission to make him laugh. To live in this world without a sense of humour only proceeds to thrust you into impenetrable darkness and the castle more than fulfills the necessary quotient of darkness._

_Listen to me... one would think that I hated the castle. How dare I abuse your childhood home and your inheritance with my _words_? I do not. I have grown to love Elsinore. It is now my home more than France ever could be. It is only here that I am free to be myself, as you have taught me. _

I inhale a sharp breath as I accidentally blot the most recent line of my letter. Ink blossoms on the parchment, swallowing the words within my latest paragraph. I frown, knowing that I will have to cross it out and start again below. Usually this would not cause me grief, but my hand is so cramped that I know I will not have a chance of finishing this letter as of right now. Perhaps I will be able to continue it tonight.

I slowly gather my writing instruments, setting the letter aside so the ink can dry. It is the last thing to be cleared from my desk and stored away, where no one will happen across it. No one is aware of my letter writing. No one knows that I spend so much time in my room, my pen eagerly soaring across page after page. No one knows that eventually, each sheet of parchment finds its way to what is no doubt a brightly lit stone room in Wittenberg. I do not know what the university looks like (as I have never been there), but I know what he likes and I cannot imagine that he would find himself in a place as dark as Elsinore.

After all, it is impossible to be a scholar in the dark.

He departed in the fall of the previous year. He left just as my love for him began to blossom, torn between his sense of duty, his lust for knowledge, his love for me, and his fear of attachment. It was his lust for knowledge that won in the end, sending him back to Wittenberg. Though I know he is more a scholar than a prince and I know that he cannot be himself without access to art and literature, part of me always wonders whether his departure was a flight from his fears. I do not want to blame him for leaving – that would be selfish and cruel of me. I cannot blame him. He is the prince and one day he will take the weight of the world on his shoulders – as of now, he is not ready. He must be able to lead himself before he can lead a nation.

What was a flame of passion during the summer months now only exists on the written page. By way of letters, the candle still burns. When he left, he gave me a gift: a poem he had composed for me, to remind me of him when I missed him the most. Some weeks after his departure, I chose to prove myself to him. I would not merely become a passing memory. I would fight to stay in his presence, even though long leagues separated us.

And so, I wrote. I wrote, I attempted poor excuses for poetry, I expressed my thoughts and wishes through the written word. I sent my letters with messengers, and waited, praying, hoping that he would receive them. He did. In return, I was gifted with new poems written in his hand, new compositions written solely for me. Though the long months of the fall and winter, we kept each other company by way of letter.

Every week, I wait in anticipation to receive his letters. Every time I open one with trembling hands, my heart leaps in my chest. Each letter is a new and exciting experience. Once read, I race to complete my response and send it off. It has been so for months. Strange… though we are not in each other's physical presence, it seems that I fall more in love with him with each letter. I miss him, but yet I do not. He is still with me, the man behind the words on the parchment. It is as if I have fallen into a storybook romance!

I have not told him so. One day, some letter from now, I will. I have not found the words yet to describe the effect of his messages.

I exit my private rooms, gently massaging my right hand where it hurts from holding the pen. I will finish the letter tonight. As for now, spring has arrived and I have ever intention to enjoy this season's warmth. There is only one place for me now, late in the afternoon as it is. I quickly make my way down the hall and weave through the labyrinthine passages of the castle.

Elsinore's gardens are blooming with new fragrant flowers. It is here that I often walk when I wish to be alone with my thoughts. However, I barely have had to use my chosen escape. When I first came to Elsinore, I spent more time alone in the gardens then I did surrounded by others. This year, that has changed. I am most content when I am with the queen's other ladies-in-waiting; they are a good group of girls, all around my age. I happily spend time with them, and on some days, the queen herself. When I grow tired of the girls' presence, I retire to my rooms and spend time with my ink and parchment, pouring my thoughts out to my beloved, lonely soul in Wittenberg.

"Ophelia."

My father's voice echoes somewhere behind me. For a fleeting moment, I think I have just imagined it. I continue on my journey through the gardens.

"Ophelia."

The voice is more firm now. I stop and turn and see him standing several paces away. My cheeks flush and I quickly bow my head.

"I apologize, Father," I say swiftly, "I did not know you were there, I meant no disrespect."

His expression is calm and light. "Sweet child," he says, taking my hand. "Dearest child. Did I frighten you?"

"Yes, my lord." I pause. "Partially."

He raises an eyebrow. "Partially?"

"I had imagined your voice was an echo on the wind and thus did not hear it proper."

He gives me a strange look and then chuckles. "Do you imagine many such things?"

"Sometimes," I reply. "This is the place where I can be alone with my thoughts."

"And would you allow your poor, doting father to intrude?"

I smile slightly. "Perhaps."

This time, he laughs fully, a loud, bellowing sound. "Charming girl," he says. "Come, let us walk."

I take his arm and we amble slowly through the garden, the late afternoon sun playing on our faces. It has been a very long time since I have seen my father. Of course, I have seen him at a distance during court, but it has been many the week – or perhaps many the month – since we have walked together as father and daughter. Part of me is bothered by this fact, which I am only realizing now, but a more dominant part dismisses it. My father is the Lord Chamberlain. He has his duties, and they are numerous. He does not have time to waste walking through gardens with his daughter, and though I hate to admit this about my own father, he is not the most interesting of company.

"I have not been graced by your presence in many a day, daughter," Father says.

I immediate feel guilty for my latest thoughts about him. "I apologize, Father," I answer quickly. "I meant no disrespect. I have…" I looked away, searching for a way to phrase my excuse. "I have been busy of late and I did not wish to distract you while you fulfilled your duties for the king."

"Oh, do look up, girl," he says. His tone is kind. I raise my head and look him in the eye. "Are you ashamed? You have no reason. You are too fair, daughter of mine, for shame. It is I who should be ashamed. I have not sought you out until today. I have not been a good father to you of late."

"No!" I take his gnarled, old hand in mine. There is a stone bench nearby; I draw us near and sit down. "You are the only father I could hope for," I say.

He smiles. "Tell me… how are you enjoying Elsinore now that you have been here for a year?"

"I have grown fond of the castle," I reply. "I feel much more at home here than I ever did in France."

"Do you miss your brother?"

My voice catches in my throat. In all my letter writing of the past months, I have not written a word to Laertes. I can feel the guilt rising up in me. A poor sister am I, to have forgotten my own brother. In my defence, he has not graced me with a letter, either.

I sigh. "I have no heard a word from him for months," I say truthfully. "I am uncertain if that makes me miss him more or miss him less."

My father gives me a quizzical look. "Strange words from the girl who would have done anything to return to her brother this time a year ago."

"Many things change in a year," I answer simply. _And more than you can possibly know._ My father is not aware of the romance between myself and the prince. I am adamant that he should never know – at least, not for now. It is something special, something I do not need him to tread on. It is a secret that breathed life into me, one that has turned me from girl to woman. I know my father will not react well, knowing that I had taken love into my own hands.

"You are happy here?" my father asks.

"Yes."

"You find that much joy in embroidery." It is a statement, rather than a question.

"The ladies of the court do have activities with which we occupy ourselves other than embroidery," I say shortly.

He catches my reproachful tone and his beard bristles. I cannot help but laugh.

"Oh, do not be affronted, Father," I tell him at once. "I meant it with good nature. If I did naught but embroidery, you would find yourself with a churlish and sour daughter."

He still does not look impressed with my comments.

"Father," I say firmly, "I have spent many a year perfecting the art of embroidery. I still spend time engaged with it, but there are other activities that we ladies of the court find enjoyable that goes beyond stitching."

"I see," he says, after a moment. "And what 'activities' are these to which my daughter applies herself so diligently?"

"Riding. The outdoors provide me with more joy than I could find the words to describe. After the winter months, I find myself needing time outside this dark, majestic place I now call home."

"And when you are not riding?" my father continues.

"I read and write," I say honestly. I know that he will probably not approve, but I feel that I must be honest with my father if I am going to hide the secret of my romance. I do not wish to be deceptive about everything I do. He is my father, and I must honour him.

I can tell from the darkening of his expression that he is not impressed. "Read?"

"I am literate, father, and there are more wonders to behold than passages found within the Holy Book. There is much to learn from the manuscripts and ideas of others. I enjoy perusing them and writing down my thoughts of them. If I were not a woman, perhaps I would become a scholar—"

"Have you gone mad, Ophelia?" Father interrupts. "Has some fairy spirited you away and replaced you with a madwoman who merely resembles my daughter in face and voice?"

The wind has picked up. Locks of my long hair are blown into my face. I release my hands from my father's and brush the hair away.

"No madness, Father," I answer calmly. "Merely interest and the application of my mind. Do not underestimate the power of words."

"Bah!" my father scoffs. "Books and manuscripts… they are for fools, not gentle flowers."

"Is the prince a fool?" The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think of their impact.

My father freezes. A redness slowly creeps into his cheeks as he realizes the meaning of their words. I have managed to do what I have never done before – shock my father.

"No," he sighs, flustered. "No, you are correct, the prince is… the prince is his Highness."

It is an ambiguous answer that has no meaning. I have always had the impression that my father does not approve of the prince's sojourn in Wittenberg.

"The prince is a scholar," I say pointedly.

"The prince may do as he pleases," my father says flatly.

The wind sweeps across the garden, bringing with it the scent of rain. I shiver. My father notices.

"If you are cold, perhaps you should return to the castle," he says, standing up. "The rain will soon arrive."

"Yes," I agree. I pause. I am upset that he is seemingly mad at me for my suggestions. I dislike arguing with my father; it usually wracks me with guilt in some way.

I hold out my hand. "Will you return with me?" I ask.

He sighs and takes it. "What father would I be to dismiss my only daughter's request?"


	2. Observations

_II. Observations _

This evening, I find myself in the queen's company in one of the castle's many public halls. It is filled with the bustle of many courtiers. My father is present, wrapped deep in conversation with several of the king's men. Across from where I stand at the queen's side is a table at which the king and his brother are engaged in a chess match. The rain the wind had promised patters against the windows, loud enough to invoke the image of a group of small boys throwing stones at the glass.

I enjoy being with the queen. Unlike the king, who is a distant and dominant figure in my life, Queen Gertrude seems less like royalty and more like family. I can almost be totally myself in her presence – but only almost. I can never forget whose mother she is, and that she is first and foremost the queen before she is a friend. I do not know if I can ever fully accept her as a confidant, just like my father.

"You seem occupied, dearest Ophelia," the queen says.

"Occupied, Your Majesty?"

"Troubled," she clarifies.

"I am not troubled," I say quickly. "Merely… engrossed in my thoughts."

The queen smiles sadly. "Is that right?" she says, looking away.

I swallow. "Did I say something wrong, Your Majesty?"

"No," she answers. "No… you merely reminded me of my son in that moment. He, too, is always engrossed in his thoughts."

I am uncertain of what to say to this. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"You understood him," the queen continues after a moment, "did you not, Ophelia? You were friends. Good friends, from the way he spoke of you."

"He spoke of me to you?" Is it my imagination, or did my heart leap in that very moment?

There is something penetrating about the look the queen sends me now. She appraises me, but says nothing. I pray that I am not flushed of cheek. The queen is a woman; she sees things that men do not. It is not as easy to hide things from her as it is my father.

"Many times," the queen says. She takes a sip from her goblet. "He mentions you in the letters he sends me. He is curious as to how you are and what you have been doing."

"But I—" I bite down on my tongue and jolt myself with the pain. I had almost asked the queen why he asked her such things when he received letters from me himself.

My eyes are watering. The queen looks at me with concern.

"What is the matter?" she asks. "There are tears in your eyes."

_And now she will assume something else…_

"I am fine, Your Majesty," I say, blinking back the tears. They retreat as the pain diminishes.

"You are as affected by his absence as I am," the queen muses quietly.

"I miss him as much as I miss my brother," I say.

"Oh?"

"The prince is a good man," I continue. "The state of Denmark would do well to have him return to us."

"And he will, someday." The queen reaches for her goblet. She drinks from it, her eyes focusing on her husband and brother-in-law. "That game amuses them both," she remarks off-hand as she sets the cup down.

"Can you tell who is winning?"

"The king's brother," the queen says immediately. "He has always been much better at gaming strategy than the king." She pauses, her eyes lingering on the distant chess match. "Tell me, Ophelia," she says quietly, "do you know why he would trade royalty for scholarship? I have thought of many answers and none of them are satisfactory. Though perhaps a longing mother can never find a satisfactory answer."

I fold my hands. "Scholarship holds more interest than politics, wars and gold. It is simple and straightforward, something you can pursue within your own boundaries and with your own time. Scholarship leads you to question the unfathomable and see beyond the limits of reality. To rule… and I mean no offence, my lady… to rule would be to turn his back on himself and what he loves most, as for now."

"Is that what he told you?"

My jaw tightens. "No. Those are my own observations."

"You have a sharp eye, Lady Ophelia."

I bow my head. "I apologize, Your Majesty. My comments have distressed you. I should not have spoken as such—"

"No, no." She waves a hand. "Never. I thank you for your comments, Ophelia. They are honest. I have encountered little honesty of late." The queen takes another sip from her goblet. Once again, her eyes have returned to the king and Prince Claudius. Her ears are all mine, but her eyes belong to the two most important men in her life.

"Then, if I may offer one more note of honesty…"

"Go on, dear one."

Across the hall, there is an uproar of voices. From what I can hear, Prince Claudius has won the chess match.

"The king is healthy and strong," I say. "He has many years left to what will no doubt be a long life. Do not worry for the prince. In time, he will return to Elsinore when he has learned all he needs from Wittenberg. Then, he will return. He is a good man. He knows where he is needed and when Denmark needs him, he will be there for her."

"You have much faith in my son," the queen says softly.

"As you have said yourself, my lady, I am his friend." I look up and stare across the hall. The king his congratulating his brother. "I know a little of how he sees the world. One day, he will return."

He will return… those are the words I have been telling myself as the number of months since his departure grows. I cannot help but wonder whether I am clinging on blindly to faith – faith that he will one day return to me. Can love breach a physical distance that continues for years? Though I write to him, is that enough? People change over time, and sometimes a heart cannot adjust to such changes.

If he returns, can he still love me?


	3. Forthright

_III. Forthright_

I return to my rooms in the dark. The rain has long since come and gone. Though it is chilly, I throw my windows open. I enjoy the smell of the air that only comes after the rain. There is little wind, so I will be in no danger of my candles being blown out. I rummage around for the little stumps of wax and carefully light them. For a moment, I stand by my desk, warming my fingers above the candles, enjoying the spark of heat.

A man who addresses his letters with "fairest" and "dearest" surely shows that he loves the woman to whom he sends them. A man who spends the time to compose poetry surely shows that he has affection for the woman who receives his compositions.

Why do I concern myself with something that may not be true? Why do I worry about something that I cannot control?

I sit down at my desk and retrieve my parchment. I have to finish this letter tonight. I take my pen and plunge it into the inkwell.

_As you may imagine, I cannot write a letter all at once. There are interruptions throughout the day. Tonight, I visited your mother. Sir, I know you do not wish to speak of your family. You do know wish them to intrude on your private life, but I feel that I must be frank with you and bring up this matter. _

_I sense that your mother is concerned for you and the power your love of scholarship has over you. I feel that she wishes for nothing more than you to return to her in preparation to take the throne. She is lost; she does not know why you choose study over politics. I attempted to give her answer, an honest one. I told her that you would rather contemplate the meaning of the world, and to abandon such a contemplation in order to rule would to turn you back on yourself. _

_But I must ask you myself: why cannot you study and rule? After all, a king requires intelligence to lead a nation. All a scholar truly needs is his own mind and imagination, and those can never be forced from you. Can Elsinore not be a seat of wisdom and study as well as a throne?_

_On another topic, I must also be forthright. I respect you for your studies. I love you for the letters you have sent me. But now I wish for more. I wish to see you. I wish to touch you, to kiss you and hold you in my arms. I cannot leave Elsinore; my father will never allow it. Will you return to me, for the sake of our hearts? Or will you forever turn your back on what we once had?_

_I cannot be angry with you, I can only be left to sit and wonder. But my heart shall always yearn for you while you are gone. With every word you have written me, I have fallen more deeply in love with you, prince of scholars. If I have learned anything at all from our chance meeting, it is to never underestimate the power of words, for they can be more potent than a lover's touch. _

_It is my custom to tell you that I shall wait patiently for your reply. Tonight, I shall be very honest. I cannot wait for your reply. If your words are the only thing I can have of you now, I cannot wait. My impatient shall fuel me for the days to come until I receive your next letter. _

_I remain forever yours,_

_Ophelia. _

I set down the pen and scan what I have just written in the flickering light of my candles. For a moment, I sit motionless, my eyes starting blankly at the page as I recall every letter that has passed between us. Memories circle my mind's eye, reaching back into summer days when I heard the words in his own voice, rather than read them, when I felt the fiery touch of his lips on my own, the blazing trail of his fingers across my skin…

I shake myself awake. These letters have always been the key to unlock my summer memories and unleash the yearning within my heart. I slowly begin to fold the parchment, but pause as I notice that I have forgotten to address the letter.

In the past, I have addressed these letters in an assortment of ways. Most of them veer towards the formal, as I will never forget that it is to a prince whom I write. However, tonight there is only word I could choose to use. With set determination, I pick up my pen and slowly inscribe the words at the head of the parchment.

_To my greatest love._

I have never addressed a letter to him as such. I have never called him as such. I have told him that I _love _him, but I have never called him "love." I have never called anyone "love." The word has a deep, special meaning for me, partially because it was not until our meeting that I had an inkling of what _love _could mean. I know, even as I fold the letter and seal it, that this will strike him profoundly. All I can do is wait and see what his reaction will be.


	4. Doubt

_IV. Doubt_

The weeks pass, as they often do, and we head toward summer. This morning, the air is bright and cool. I am, once again, in the gardens. I find it very peaceful here. If it would not be much trouble, I may bring my reading here, although I fear my father may not approve. He loves me, but there is little of which he approves.

As I make my way away from the outer wall of the gardens, I see a man standing a little ways up the path ahead. His head is bowed and he is very still; he seems to be lost in his own contemplations. Not wanting to disturb him, I turn to walk along a different route, but he lifts his head and stares in my direction.

It is the king's brother.

I drop into a curtsey. "I apologize, your Highness," I murmur, "I did not mean to disturb you."

His impassive expression lightens with a kindly smile. "No fear, child," he replies, "you have caused me no pain."

I rise from my curtsey and bow my head to excuse myself. "I shall not impede on you any longer," I say quickly.

Just as I am about to leave, he calls me back.

"One moment, child," he says.

"Yes?"

His eyes narrow as he searches my face. "You are Ophelia, are you not? Lord Polonius' daughter?"

"Yes, my lord."

I have only ever seen the king's brother from a distance. I have never exchanged words with him before. I am uncertain of how to act. Prince Claudius has a royal air about him, one charged with a majestic power and intelligence. He is so very much like the king.

"May I request my lady's permission to walk with her?"

I pause, suddenly chilled. Walk with one of the most powerful and important men in the kingdom? In my nervousness, I blurt out an affirmative answer before I have made up my mind.

We wander quickly through the gardens; the king's brother has a long and powerful stride. I do not mind the brisk pace; it is cool this morning and a cloak is not enough to conserve warmth.

"I hope I have not startled you, my lady," the king's brother says as we walk. "I do realize that this is the first time I have spoken to you."

"I am not that easily startled my lord," I answer quickly.

He chuckles. "Lady Ophelia, your nervousness is as clear as the morning sky. Please, do not cloak your sentiments on my behalf simply because I am a member of the royal family. If you are startled, I apologize sincerely."

He smiles kindly at me, a smile that I timidly return.

"What is it that my lord wishes to discuss," I ask as we turn a corner in the paved pathway, "if anything at all?"

"Is my lady interested in decent conversation?" he replies.

"If by decent conversation, you imply a discussion outside the realms of courtier gossip, I shall do my best."

We stop. He is looking at me with incredulity.

"Courtier gossip?"

I feel that he is surprised not by my words, but by the fact that I have mentioned it in the first place.

"Surely the comings and goings of the nobles are not of an interesting note," I defend myself. "Unfortunately, most of the ladies feel gossip's keen whisper when we are all attending our afternoon embroidery. I have no love for it."

"Indeed." He regards me curiously.

I must have piqued his interest. We continue to walk as I ramble on, unable to control my own tongue as I find myself uncertain of what to do in Prince Claudius' presence.

"Between you and me, my lord," I say, "aristocratic society finds the most frivolous things to take interest in. I believe we must apply our minds in more beneficial ways than discussing the rumours of a certain lord's latest conquests, or the state of dress of a certain lady."

The king's brother looks thoughtful for a moment. "So that is what you women engage in when the men are not present."

I stare at him in disbelief. For a moment, my look of shock registers on my face and Prince Claudius bursts into deep-throated laughter. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I realize the purpose of his statement.

"A joke," I say, moving onward down the path on my own.

He follows. "Yes, my lady."

"I apologize for my reaction."

"I apologize for the poor words and lack of humour."

He says it with such straight-faced honesty that a laugh comes to me, unbidden.

"In all honesty," Prince Claudius says, "I have never had a good grasp of humour. That has always belonged to my nephew. Some days he seems more wordsmith than prince."

A light smile touches my lips. "The prince is a learned man. Scholarship brings him joy in this world."

"As it does you," the king's brother replies.

"My lord?"

"If you'll forgive my remarks," he tells me placidly, "you are the only lady who frequents the library."

"In that I see no wrong, sir," I reply defensively. "My interests lie outside the casual entertainments of the court."

"I do not accuse you of your scholarship, my lady," Prince Claudius says. "In fact, I commend you for it."

I lower my head in thanks.

"I see my nephew has had a great impression on you."

I raise my eyes and look at him as his gaze searches my face. I cannot help but wonder whether the king's brother is inquiring into the extent of my relationship with the prince. Many in court who had seen us together wondered; over the past months, I have worked hard to abolish those suspicions. I am not ready for it to be common knowledge within the fire trap of the court. Until I am – given the prince returns – I will remain "chaste" and "virtuous" Ophelia.

Prince Claudius steps back. "Have I insulted you in some way, my lady?" he asks, unsure of my clouded expression.

I am quick to respond. "No, my lord. Forgive me." Feeling lost and the sting of embarrassment on my cheeks, I curtsey quickly, uncertain of what to do. As I come up, I clear my throat and speak. "The prince is… was… a good friend. In our conversations, he opened my mind to many possibilities. One could say that he is responsible for my interest in the art of the written word."

"Believe me, my lady," the king's brother says, "that much is plainly evident." There is sincerity in his eyes. "There is a certain air about those who prefer the company of manuscripts to the company of men. There are glimpses of that air about you."

I frown. I cannot quite understand the implications of that statement. "Perhaps one must have that air to see it within others," I counter.

"Perhaps."

I am surprised; I expected him to contradict me. The next question is past my lips before I even contemplate its meaning.

"Then are you one to prefer the company of manuscripts, my lord?"

The king's brother laughs. It is a type of laugh I have heard many a time – one delivered when I am thought to be a silly, young girl.

And perhaps I am just that: a silly, young girl.

"Alas, no," Prince Claudius says, chuckling still at my question. "My interests lie in the material world rather than the philosophical one."

"Why is that, my lord?" I ask. "The philosopher strives to understand human nature. Certainly that brings them closer to others. As a member of the royal family you are positioned to help the people of this country. Surely the first step would be to understand the people who live here."

He is laughing again. Perhaps he thinks me naïve.

"You should be congratulated on your idealism, my lady," he says. "What a speech of innocence! The world, unfortunately, is not so simple. Philosophy is powered by the mind, but the mind is not enough to lead a country. What man can rule if he is not present?"

I stir briefly at this remark. It bothers me, but I thrust my feelings aside and listen has he continues.

"Philosophies withdraw the mind from where it is needed the most," the king's brother explains. "A majority of those who need a leader cannot be lead by a man controlled by high and lofty ideas. Leaders cannot look to their minds alone. They need heart and soul to rule; otherwise they will become incomprehensible to those they are attempting to lead. That is why I fear I can never be a scholar. I cannot abandon my heart or my soul so readily."

He pauses. We have come to the end of our promenade, having come full circle around the gardens.

Prince Claudius turns to me, his eyes looking directly into mine. "I tell you this now, Lady Ophelia," he says gravely, "because I believe your young mind requires another point of view. I will not be king. I will never be king. When my good brother passes on from this world – and may that be many years from now – it will be my nephew who will be elected into office, as is his right. Even so, I will do my best to honour the conduct of a man who makes a truly great king and leader, as respect for the family into which I was born."

With that, he nods his head in thanks for my company, and departs. I curtsey and watch as he walks regally up the steps and into the castle. Once he is gone, my mind returns to his earlier comment. _What man can rule if he is not present?_ Why would the king's brother tell me, of all people, such a thing?

It is now that I wish, more than ever, that the prince would return from his studies. He is not present… and his uncle speaks with truth. How can he hope to rule if he is never here, if he constantly puts what he loves most over what is necessary of him?

What is to become of us if he never returns to me? Does he still love me, as I love him, or does his passion subside as the months pass?

I am disturbed by my own thoughts and I immediately seek out two of the queen's ladies-in-waiting – Adelaide and Fernanda – of whom I have sought friendship over the many months I have been here. Their happy babble of courtier gossip provides a relieving distraction from my thought-weary mind. As a result, I spend the rest of my day in their company, glad of the distractions.

However, one cannot run forever from their lingering thoughts. As if by fate, this evening a messenger seeks me out and I receive the letter for which I have long waited. My fingers grasp the cold, rough parchment and I can feel my heart begin to race.

Is it only by chance that I should receive this letter now, just as the lingerings of doubt about him settle into my mind?

I flee to my rooms where I can read the letter in private.


	5. Faith

_V. Faith_

I fling myself into my room, shutting the door behind me. I quickly light my set of candles, and reach for a knife to slit the letter's seal. My hands are trembling and I almost tear the precious parchment. Setting the knife aside, I sit down on my bed to relieve my knees of their quaking and open the letter.

_To the dearest Lady Ophelia,_

_Were I ever present at Elsinore, I would find you hundred-fold violets to pass to you as a token. Ere I am not present, I must discover another path, one through words as they are all I have to offer, o most beautified lady. _

_Your grievances do pain me, and as such I shall be as forthright to you as you have respectfully done for me. You wonder why I cannot be satisfied with the resources Elsinore has to offer and why I must stay far away. It is difficult for me to pen this, as it does shame me in ways I – a prince – cannot escape. However, I must tell you, out of respect for one with whom I have shared so much. _

_A part of me feels very strongly that I do not wish to be king. That same part desires to learn what I can, abandoning my heart and soul to a power only my mind can provide. Perhaps I shall be wise and learnèd, but I shall not be king. It is a selfish desire, I know, and unwholesome to admit. But while my father remains strong and healthy – as a man of his calibre does – I shall continue to, shamefully, run from my heritage until a time when I am to be called back. Then, I must do as I should. I fear that, for now, if I return to Elsinore, I shall become instilled with the putrid affairs of the court and lose my mind to the squalor and corruption of rich nobles who care for nothing but material wealth and their societal advancement. I have nothing but disdain for schemes and petty cruelty. Once I return, I shall be under constant observation by the entire castle. It is a cruel thing, to be a prince. Much of my life is watched, like the madmen who are studied by doctors to enhance their craft. I wish to avoid that as I can._

_You have called yourself a child for enjoying such simple things as the turning of the seasons. I envy you, sweet Ophelia. It is something I cannot learn to enjoy anymore, slaughtered as I am by knowledge of the world in which we live. Your mind is still pure and untouched; let it remain so for all eternity! I beg this of you. The simple joys are the most bounteous and lovely, and I fear I can never again take part. Were we within each other's presence, I would have you teach me to enjoy such beauty again, as I did when I was a child. _

_It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I cannot bring myself to return to Elsinore. Not a day goes by that I do not wish you were here and that we could be together. Your letters give me great warmth and boundless happiness – even when I detect an unsatisfied sharpness within your written words, as with your last letter. I can already sense your disappointment and I guilt myself once again for abandoning you outright simply because of my fears. _

_Know that I love you, and that no matter of distance can ever change what I feel within my heart. Were you here, I would give you a thousand kisses. Were you here, I would bring you a thousand sunsets. I would give you the stars and more if I could. Alas, dearest lady, I cannot, but I will ask you this: live, sweet one, so that one day I may give you such things. I may be entrenched in the power of my own mind, but I have not abandoned my heart. It belongs to you, and I give it to you for safe-keeping. _

_If I were a daring man, apt for all kinds of folly, I would say that I could not live without you and knowing every day that you are alive in Elsinore brings me peace and happiness that no book or manuscript could ever provide. If I could never be with you again, I would gladly trade all the manuscripts in this world to return to you. Perhaps you will now think that I could do so right in this moment – but I shall say that knowing you are there, waiting until I return from my studies, waiting for the joyous reunion that will one day come, is enough to content me. Faithful Ophelia, dear one, kind one, sweetest lady… I give you my leave and wait – impatiently, as you say – for your words to return to me. _

_Yours evermore, while I still draw breath, _

_Hamlet._

I press the letter to my breast, my heart pounding. I am shivering, but it is not from the cold. The tingle in my skin is nothing more than excitement. I scan the letter and to my surprise, the ink is running. Tears from my eyes have appeared, unnoticed and unbidden, dripping onto the parchment and smudging his elegant script.

I set the letter aside and lie back on my bed, brushing my fingers across my eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. Why am I crying? What did I read that invokes such weeping? I begin to laugh and a strange sobbing sound escapes me. I cannot explain it, even to myself. A bitter happiness, a sad romance… I close my eyes and think of him. His exuberant smile as he passes me one of his completed poems; the sound of his voice as he sings to me, folding me in his embrace; the knowing glances we exchange when we meet in the public halls. A love I thought would never end, yet fully feels the pain of separation that tonight's letter has only made worse as memories bombard me.

Yet I will never want to forget.

I recall Prince Claudius' remarks about leaders – heart, soul and mind. Had he subtly suggested that _my_ prince lacked heart and soul? Did he blame his nephew, the future king, for being estranged from his country? Has Hamlet abandoned his nation for the pursuit of knowledge?

I do not know if I can answer these questions. I do not _wish_ to have answers for them.

However… my heart still beats. My passion burns on. I re-read the letter and finally my tears cease.

It is ridiculous to suggest that my prince, my Hamlet, has been overtaken by the power of his mind. He may be my first love and therefore some will say I know little of the subject, but I know this: I love him. And despite the books and studies and his fears, he loves me. Why else would he continue such a correspondence and write with such blatant, powerful honesty?

My eyes catch a line from the letter: _I would find you hundred-fold violets to pass to you as a token. _I smile. Not only are they a favoured flower of mine, they represent faithfulness.

I close the letter and rise from my bed to put it away, stashed secretly with everything he has ever given me. Gone are the tears. I swear to myself that I will never doubt his love again. I shall not be selfish and demand more than he can give.

He loves me, and that is enough.


	6. Astolat

_VI. Astolat_

There is something admirable about nature within the summer months. While in spring proves its determination to fight back, summer solidifies its fortitude. Even this far north the landscape blossoms with greenery that would be difficult to eradicate.

"Ophelia!" Adelaide cries from somewhere far beyond me. "Ophelia!"

Certain members of the court have taken this opportunity of fine weather to flee the dreary confines of the castle. Though our horses cross the craggy hills, the gossip ever remains the same.

I catch Adelaide's eye; she is at the edges of the line of nobles, tossing her hair in the sunlight, laughter spread across every inch of her young face. She beckons to me and I spur my mare toward her. Already I have an idea of what she has in mind. Turning in my saddle, I nod to Fernanda, who is only a few paces behind me. Together, we veer away from the crowd and break loose, heading toward the seclusion of a grove by the brook.

We cannot help but giggle like naughty children as we make our daring escape. After all, sensible ladies do not behave in such ways.

I have long since given up being sensible, as have my friends. The summer fever is upon us, one that encourages us to behave in the silliest of manners. We do not have a care in the world.

Part of the way down to the brook, I swing myself from my saddle and give my mare a pat on the neck. Adelaide and Fernanda have already flown from their horses to the water's edge, peals of laughter ringing through the warm air as they race each other down the craggy slopes.

They have forgotten to tie up their horses. Sighing, I complete the task for them and then lift my skirts so I do not trip on my way down to the brook. I do not mind having to look after them; sometimes they make me feel like an older sister. As I do not have sisters, I find their companionship heart-warming.

"I feel as though I were a child," Fernanda says, sitting down by the brook. Adelaide kneels beside her, leaning out over the water's edge. She dips her hand into the brook and flings a handful of water playfully at Fernanda. Adelaide grins as Fernanda shrieks, partly with shock from the water's coolness, party with laughter.

In return, Fernanda throws her own handful at Adelaide. Adelaide giggles with glee and retreats up the river bank, throwing herself down on the grass, her skirt billowing around her in a mass of bright colours.

"You're the child!" Adelaide retorts mockingly to her friend. Suddenly, she jumps to her feet and gives us her best regal impression, standing on her tip-toes and walking lightly to and fro along the bank. "Child am I?" She holds the pose for a moment and grins wildly at us; then her balance is lost and she wobbles side-ways toward the brook. I rush forward and seize her arm to steady her before she topples into the water.

"Careful," I warn her.

Adelaide brushes my hand away. "Ophelia, you are positively no fun anymore," she says, flouncing away under the willow tree.

"Maybe," I counter. "But do you really want to return to the castle covered head-to-toe in mud and soaked to the bone?"

Adelaide buzzes her lips and throws herself onto the ground. "Someday I might," she says defiantly, lying comfortably on her stomach.

I fold my arms. "Of course," I say, one eyebrow raised. I keep my tone light. "But evidently grass stains will work for today."

"Grass stains?" Adelaide leaps to her feet and begins searching for signs of unwanted green on her skirts. She looks terribly silly; Fernanda and I cannot help but laugh at her.

Adelaide fumes. "It is not terribly amusing," she pouts.

"If you could see yourself," Fernanda tells her, "you would laugh, too." She puts her legs out in from of her and removes her shoes and stockings. Setting them aside, she plunges her feet into the coolness of the water.

Adelaide sulks and flings herself back down on the ground, once again unwary of tell-tale grass stains. She lies on her back and exhales loudly, staring at the gently swaying branches of the willow tree. "I am fourteen," she says. "I am not a child. I am a woman grown, but no one sees fit to see it."

I am wandering along the edge of the brook, gathering wildflowers. "Give it time," I say. "Someday, someone will notice."

"My cousin in England knows a maid who was married at thirteen," Adelaide protests. "Thirteen! A full year younger than I!" She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face and sits up to eye me contemptuously. "By those standards, you will be considered an old maid!"

Fernanda chortles at this and kicks her bare feet in the water.

I would smart at Adelaide's words, but she often speaks rashly. She is much younger than I and has led a sheltered life. She does not mean ill, she is merely jealous and too young to realize it.

But jealous of what? Love? A romanticized love at that… In her mind, love is the grand achievement, something she sensualises by listening to old tales and mythologies where love is only simple and beautiful. She does not know how hard it can be waiting for someone to return.

One of the flowers I have picked has wilting petals. They are white and would have been beautiful, if they were healthy. I frown and discard the dying blossom into the river. It rides away on rippling water.

"I could never be an old maid, Adelaide," I tell her. "I am determined to stay young at heart forever." I sit along the river bank, between her and Fernanda, and place the flowers in my lap. I begin to twist them together into garlands.

Fernanda crows from the brook's edge. "Young forever?" she laughs. "What would be the point? The faster I can grow older, the better."

"Why is that?" I ask, my hands busily stringing flowers together.

"Because when I am older," Fernanda states, "I shall be married, wealthy and with several beautiful children. I shall have a husband who is both noble and rich – and far older than I. And he will dote on me and give me anything I ask for. When he dies – which shall be long before I do – I shall inherit his valuable gold and jewels. To be a rich matriarch is much more appealing than pretending to be young while your beauty fades with each passing year." She stretches her hands high above her head. "And besides, when I am married, I shall no longer have ugly men who I do not like staring at me."

"At least you have men who stare at you," Adelaide grumbles. "It takes all I can do to get them to look at me twice."

"You are enraptured with an idea, Adelaide," I say. "Most suitors care for nothing _but_ your looks."

Adelaide frowns. "But I'm pretty, aren't I?" she cries. "So why do they not look in the first place?"

"That's not the point," I tell her firmly. "The longer you can avoid them, the better – unless you happen to find a man who enjoys your thoughts as much as your looks."

"How would you know?" Adelaide's retort rings loudly.

I glance at her and shrug, a mischievous twist on my lips.

Adelaide's eyes widen. "Why, Ophelia!" she gasps. "I do believe you are hiding something!" She props herself up on one elbow. "Those rumours from last year were not true, were they? You… and the prince?" She bats her eyes at me, a common tactic when she wants someone to tell her what she wants to hear.

The corners of my mouth twist. "I certainly hope not," I say vaguely. I hold up my flower garland for inspection.

Fernanda rounds on me. "I do believe you _are_ hiding something from us, Ophelia."

"Did I say that?" I smile innocently as I unravel my long hair and brush it out with my fingers. "I thought I just told you that I wished to remain young at heart forever. Certainly such grandiose things as love and passion are beyond the comprehension of youth."

Adelaide is immediately distracted by my words. I do enjoy teasing her. She is terribly amusing to watch as she struggles to work out what I mean, sensing that it is something against her point of view.

"That is not the point!" she says crossly. A dawn of realization lights in her eyes. "Do you think me too young to understand love, Ophelia?" she cries, suddenly riled.

"I think _I_ am too young to fully understand love," I respond placidly, twining the garland into my hair. "And as I am older than you, logically that means that you, too, are too young to understand love."

Adelaide frowns. "But we are very different, you and I."

"A difference of opinion, that is all." I shrug.

Fernanda laughs. "Chaste Ophelia! Sweet Ophelia!" She grins. "That's what they say you are. If you stay like this, you will remain chaste Ophelia forever."

Though I have to work hard to keep from laughing, I can feel my cheeks flushing. I am the furthest thing from chaste, unbeknownst to them. I have given myself to another outside the vows of marriage, but I love him and he loves me. We are as good as promised to each other, even though it must stay secret. Scandalous, perhaps, but I cannot permit myself to see it as wrong. Why should love be wrong?

"Oh oh!" Adelaide takes note of my expression and sits up abruptly. There is a keen look in her eyes, one she gets when she is on the hunt for information. "She blushes!"

I roll my eyes and continue to wind the garland through my hair. Despite my feigned lack of caring, the smile keeps forcing its way on to my lips.

"I've seen the way those nobles look at you when you father isn't glowering at them," Adelaide persists. "And you always ignore them, or pretend not to notice their attention."

"'Tis true," I say calmly. "I prefer it that way."

"But what if you only do so because you _do_ love someone, but d not wish it to be known?" Adelaide looks triumphant. She is obviously enamoured with her own cleverness.

I am not going to satisfy her demands for an answer. My secret is mine, not hers, and she will never now how close to the truth she is. Despite my reservations, I cannot hope to dispel the rosy blush on my cheeks.

"Why Ophelia," Fernanda says, "you look as those you have been pierced by Cupid's arrow!"

I shake my head, though I can barely muffle my laugh. "What do you want me to say friends? Shall I admit that I have tasted love's sweet promise and have it run all over the castle by tomorrow morn?"

Adelaide shoots me a distressed look.

"Do not give me that," I say gently. "You do so love gossip, Adelaide."

"So you won't tell?" Fernanda says. Disappointment layers her voice.

"No," I say. "It shall remain a mystery. Have I, haven't I… no one knows but me."

Adelaide lies back in the grass. "You are toying with us!" she exclaims. "I don't believe you have ever loved. Otherwise you wouldn't have such disdain for me."

I smile slightly in her direction. _Oh Adelaide, how much you have to learn._

I stand up, my garland finished. My hair is now crowned with summer blossoms. "What do you think?" I ask.

Fernanda sighs. Her feet splash lightly in the water, throwing up sparkling droplets. "You look like the Lady of Astolat."

I raise my eyebrows, discomfort settling in my stomach. I step over to the edge of the brook and lean over, peering in the water with hopes of catching my reflection. The brook moves too quickly for that, so all I catch is my silhouette floating on the rapid fall of the water.

"That old English tale?" I say, straightening.

"Be comforted, Ophelia," Adelaide says easily, sprawling on the grass and closing her eyes. "Even in death, Lady Elaine of Astolat was beautiful and young as she floated down the river toward Camelot. Isn't that what you wish for? To stay young forever?"

I kneel on the grass beside Fernanda and look into the water again. Lady Elaine, who in some versions of the legend, was cursed to look at the world through a mirror. Lady Elaine, who died of unrequited love for Sir Lancelot and bid her flower-strewn body be placed in a small boat and sent down the river. A poetic, romantic, beautiful death for a young woman who could not have her love returned.

Why does Fernanda say now that I resemble her? Why am I bothered by such words?

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Fernanda regarding me curiously.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asks.

"No, no…" I stare at my flower-garlanded silhouette. _I am not the Lady of Astolat,_ I say firmly to myself. I pull the garland from my hair and throw it in the brook. I watch as the flowers come apart and float away from me until they disappear.


	7. Dance

_VII. Dance _

The summer festivals are in order. It is widely known that it is the king's favourite time of the year, and as such festivities swarm the castle and its grounds. Tonight is something special to behold – a dance. A grand ball, as some would say. Every courtier is in attendance, as are many guests from some of the most affluent cities in the country.

It is a bright, jovial affair, an evening filled with diversions beyond count. The whole court is seemingly boisterous on drink as entertainments pass us by. A troupe of talented players performs pieces, capturing us with their stories until we laugh and weep on their command.

Once the players are through, the musicians lift their instruments and the hall if filled with bright, moving music. Adelaide is thrilled – she passes from partner to partner, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She basks in the delight of being noticed. No doubt her feckless youth is attractive to many of the guest nobility who grace the hall. Fernanda is equally enjoying the evening's proceedings. She is attempting to charm her way through a mass of older nobles, no doubt hoping to snare a wealthy widower with her young, rosy looks.

As for me, I partake in the dancing, but only with a mask of amusement. I would much rather observe the dance then participate. Since Adelaide and Fernanda brought it to light, I have begun to fully notice the way men observe me and it makes me uncomfortable. Their lingering stares I can do without, and I long to make it clear to them that I have no desire to return their affections.

There is one most vile man whom I have not yet managed to dissuade. His name is Sir Edward, a recently-made knight some ten years my elder, though he does not look it. His appearance is that of a much younger man, and his boasting attitude suggests young age rather than a seasoned warrior. His looks aid him in attracting the ladies' eyes much more than his egoism does. He has auburn hair, which is a rarity and sparks much interest in my fellow ladies. However, much to their disappointment and mine, he pursues me with a single-minded manner and ignores all the others.

For these past few days, he has continuously asked for my hand in a dance and for some reason I cannot fathom, I am always placed as his partner. If it is some curse of fate that brings me to him, then I curse fate all the more. As I am the Lord Chamberlain's daughter, I cannot refuse his demands outright without causing a volatile explosion for the entire court to hear. I am bound by politeness, and I despise it.

Unfortunately, my continued partnership with him has caused ripples of whispers across the court, so much that Adelaide and Fernanda are among those who think Edward is my secret lover. All I can hope is that once these festivities pass, my father's disapproving look will send Edward running, unless I find some way of doing so beforehand.

That is why I currently find myself trapped in his embrace as we sail across the dance floor to the tune of a merry jig.

"Do you like to dance, my lady?" he asks.

_If such dancing leads you to dropping dead from exhaustion. _It is a daft question, in the wake of having danced with me for three consecutive days. I smile as sweetly as I can, even though my thoughts are as far from sweet as can be.

"It is a pleasant enough pastime."

"You should enjoy it more," he says. "Clearly it is the most merriment a woman of the court encounters." He chortles.

I do not like the sound of his laughter. It is harsh and coarse and profoundly ugly. "You are amused, my lord." I do not mean it as a question. Edward clearly finds whatever slips past his lips entertaining.

"Of course I am, lovely lady," he says.

I burn inside. No one addresses me as such – except one. And he is _not_ Edward. I restrain the burning in the pit of my stomach and force my expression into a saccharine mask.

"Ow!"

"My lord?" I ask, feigning bewilderment.

"My foot," he says harshly, his eyes flaring.

"My deepest apologies, Sir Edward," I say charmingly. "My feet are so clumsy, it is astonishing that I have learned to dance at all."

"Ah, of course, of course," he says. "You ladies live such sheltered lives; this obviously does not come naturally to do."

I wrinkle my nose. I can smell the sourness of drink on his breath. "Evidently, my lord."

He laughs again. "Ho ho! You agree. Of course you agree; you are the perfect portrait of obedience, Lady Ophelia. As are most women in this court, as I hear."

My smile is continuous. My cheeks are beginning to ache. I wonder whether he has noticed that I have not changed my expression since we began this dance.

"It is difficult to find a lady who dares to _live_ a little," he says in an off-hand manner. "You with your embroidery and gossip, staying aloof high in the castle walls. Women do nothing for themselves. It is no small wonder that you are so reserved when you lock yourselves away like that."

"Of course," I say. I make my voice monotone, wondering whether he will notice. He views me as a puppet in his arms, and puppets have no expression. "Would you have us all be like country girls?"

"They are much more interesting." He pulls me close and flicks one of the flowers in my hair. I scowl, but he doesn't seem to take note. "They are uneducated and daft," he says, "but they have spirit. I have met many such a peasant girl on my travels."

My cheeks burn red. I am not so innocent as to not understand the meaning behind his words; he does not cloak them well. A simpleton would understand. I have a strong desire to exact some kind of vengeance on him for all those girls who have gone – most likely unwillingly – to his bed.

"You do a fine impersonation of one for a lady of high rank," Sir Edward says, eyeing the flowers in my hair. "I should dearly like to meet the girl who made this garland. She has a fine eye for beauty."

I set my jaw. "Thank you, my lord," I say through my teeth.

"What?"

"You look upon that girl right now."

His eyebrows rise. He chortles. "Indeed? How… quaint of you, Lady Ophelia. By your pale complexion, I would have expected you to have stayed indoors for most of your life, like a good lady should."

I am seething now. "Contrary to your beliefs, _sir,"_ I say flatly, "I quite enjoy the outdoors. In fact, most of the ladies of the court do. However, I doubt they will find your endearing comparison to the peasant girls so fine. As I am merely a silly, young, _sheltered_ woman, I clearly do not have the intelligence to keep such a piece of information to myself and no doubt it may slip past my lips to my friends. And as they only have the combined intelligence of a flock of birds, it will slip past their lips to their friends – and so on and so forth until every lady in this court knows what Sir Edward of the Auburn Hair thinks of them." I cannot resist putting in the insult to his hair colour. Though it is was the ladies call him when they speak of him, from my lips it is an insult. I smile and return to my previously sugary ways. "Undoubtedly, the queen – a great lover of the outdoors herself – will hear of it, too. I believe she may not be all that impressed." I bat my eyelashes for added effect.

Sir Edward has gone very pale.

"But as we are all such silly women," I finish, "nothing should come of your hasty remarks, now will it, Sir Edward?"

He stares at me, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"That is your logic, is it not?" I add. "That all women are so foolish that we must be lead around by the men in our lives? Would you like to put that belief to the test, Sir Edward?"

He blinks his eyes, dumbfounded into silence.

"Oh dear," I sigh. "And here I thought I had found a man who could at least keep up his end of the conversation. Unfortunately, it looks to me as though your lips are sealed. Poor me. I had such great expectations for a knight." The dance comes to an end. I curtsey to Sir Edward and say, "Thank you for your time, my lord. I doubt I shall be needing your acquaintance any longer."

I turn, smiling triumphantly to myself, and disappear through the crowd. As I make my way, I see the queen twirl to a stop in the arms of the king's brother. Where the king is, I do not know, but he has a better liking for drink than dance. The queen is giddy and laughing, her eyes full of light. As she walks away, she nearly collides with me.

"Oh, Ophelia!"

"Your Majesty." I curtsey.

"Oh, that is not necessary, my dear," the queen says, waving the formalities aside. She looks flushed, even in her royal glamour. "It is a trifle hot, do you not think?" she says as she fans herself. "Come, let's take a walk."

"Yes, Your Majesty," I answer and I follow her through the crowd. The next dance has started. I see Adelaide whirl by, giddy with delight. She waves to me over her partner's shoulders. I wave back, glad to see her frivolous side content.

Through a part in the crowd, I can make out Sir Edward, standing with several of his friends. His face is flushed red and he does not look at all pleased. The men accompanying him are howling with laughter, supposedly at him. I feel triumph's glow. Now he knows the consequences of dealing with an educated woman. Hopefully he will remember it – he acts as though his advances have never been thwarted before. I make note that I should relate this story to my dear Hamlet in my next letter. No doubt he will find it amusing.

"Are you enjoying the festivities, Ophelia?" the queen asks as we walk down a silent corridor outside the grand hall.

"To some degree, Your Majesty," I reply.

She shakes her head. "Please," she says, "do not address me so, dear one, when it is just you and I."

"My lady?"

The queen sighs. "I have a confession to make, Ophelia," she says. "You are very much like the daughter I have never had. I have become very fond of you, and as you have no mother, I…" She falls silent, but I do not need to hear the words she cannot bring herself to speak. My eyes are wet; I can feel the onset of tears. I blink them away. I do not wish to weep; I weep far too easily. Feeling a curtsey would be inappropriate here, I take a risk and embrace the queen as I would my own mother. She seems startled for a moment, but she accepts it.

"Thank you, dearest," she says softly.

I let go and step back. "My thanks are yours, your…" I cut myself off. "Gertrude."

She laughs at the familiar address. "It is not very often that I hear my own name," she says. "Let us walk. The Lord knows one cannot stay in that hall forever."

"It is boisterous," I agree. "Perhaps that is why I can only enjoy part of it. I prefer the peace and quiet."

"Yet you partook in all the dances."

"Sir Edward was persistent."

"Hm. A persistent man is difficult to ignore."

"Until you trick him into embarrassment," I say. "Only then, when he finds himself outwitted, will he leave you alone as he is too much a coward for your sharpened tongue." I pause. "In your private ear, Sir Edward is a vile man and I hold no affection for him whatsoever. He is bawdy of mouth and as such, it was easy to dupe him."

Gertrude laughs. "I should very much like to hear this tale," she says.

I smile and agree. I tell her the story of how it occurred. She proves to be an excellent audience, laughing and shaking her head at Edward's woes and taking offence at his words.

"He has shamed himself by attempting to court you," Gertrude says when I come to my conclusion. "Poor, vile man, indeed. I do say you have caused quite the fracas, Ophelia. This story will spread around the court like wildfire. You stirred the imagination of the nobles these past few days simply by speaking to Sir Edward in the first place. When word of your… words to him spreads, you will further ingrain your reputation as a lady who has no interest in men."

"That is true enough," I say, glancing through the window at the starry sky above. "There is no man at court who interests me."


	8. Loss

_VIII. Loss _

My revenge against Sir Edward ruffles the court for a few weeks at the most, but eventually the nest of nobles becomes enthralled with greater gossip that has little to do with me. I am left in peace, though Adelaide and Fernanda hound me for the inner details as to why I turned down Sir Edward. They believe it proof that I have a secret lover to whom I will remain faithful. They eventually cease asking me questions when I tell them that Sir Edward is a vile man and exaggerate greatly on the details I retrieved from him.

I never reveal to my friends that their beliefs were the truth, let alone that my secret lover is the prince of Denmark.

As the high tides of summer fall, the leaves begin to change colour and autumn comes upon us, dispelling the warm weather we have long enjoyed. Our rides and walks become less frequent, even though I do enjoy the fantastically bright colours of the trees.

Autumn brings with it a period of melancholy. Perhaps it is because I hate seeing nature put to rest for winter's ice and snow, but my mind tells me that it is because one full year has passed since Hamlet departed for Wittenberg and he has not yet returned.

The freedom of summer made our correspondences merry. I told him the tales of my adventures with Adelaide and Fernanda, and relating all the troubles I had desisting the advances of ungainly suitors like Sir Edward. His responses were always good-natured; he found my stories delightful. In return, he wrote of his own adventures around the university, his discoveries in texts he happened upon, and of his friends there. In his final letter to me before the leaves began to change, he wrote:

_I see you have taken my wish for you to be young at heart to – if this poor pun can be excused as a lamentable use of language – heart. I am glad that your summer days have been so jovial. I promise you now that I will be there with you at the next summer festival, where we can mock the pettiness of our fellow courtiers to our hearts' content, so long as it amuses us and does not make us horrible, horrible people. _

I took it to mean that he would be returning to Elsinore soon. Indeed, near the end of the letter he admitted that the university had little else it could provide him and that perhaps it was time for him to consider politics over philosophies. I have yet to reply to that letter, as I wish to catch as much of autumn's beauty before the bitterly cold weather forces me indoors. However, I have grown weary of adventuring by myself and when Adelaide and Fernanda refuse my invitations, I find other ways to spend my time. So though it is only mid-afternoon on a sleepy autumn day, I find myself in my room, pen in hand and ink staining my fingers as my hand glides across a sheet of rough parchment.

_I apologize for the lateness in my response. There are only so few days left in which I can comfortably adventure outside and I sought to use them wisely. It is very quiet here in these days; sometimes it seems as though the castle itself is asleep. _

_I myself am too exhilarated for sleep. I will hold you to your promise made in your last letter. Come summer, we shall dance and mock the petty fools of the court. Petty fools… perhaps it is some of my innocence shining through, but I do feel some guilt in calling them that even though, with an objective eye, that is how they behave. My friends are among the "petty fools" of the court and though Adelaide and Fernanda can be very foolish, I love them dearly for all their mistakes. Frivolous fools would be a better title, I think, than petty. At least it satisfies my conscience. _

_Despite the distance that has separated us for a year, I must tell you that the darkness of depression has never reached me. I am like an excitable child waiting for gifts whenever a messenger delivers a letter. I confess that I have thought that this distance has served us well. I have fallen deeply in love with you, my beloved lord, and it was through written word that I have done so. That is a power that can never be unbound. _

_You are concerned that you will not be able to lead this country – you have written to me so many times. Now as I await the time of your return, I send you my thoughts of comfort. We all have fears about what is expected of us, and so your fear is understandable. But I can see what you do not, and I tell you now you will be one of Denmark's greatest leaders. One could say that love has blinded my opinions, but I try to see through objective eyes. Your intelligence will let you see people for who they are. You are both kind and compassionate – as you have shown me nothing but. You shall make a fine king, my lord, and once you return to Elsinore perhaps you will see it for yourself. _

My door suddenly flies open and my papers scattered all over my room. I leap to my feet and attempt to hurriedly assemble them, but my father appears and takes me by the hand.

"Leave your scribblings, daughter," he says in rushed tones. "You must come with me now."

"Father, what is wrong?" I struggle to ease myself from his grip as he drags me down the corridor, but his grasp remains tight.

"Something dreadful has occurred," he says. We come to a halt and he finally releases me. "Go to the grand hall and wait for me there. I must meet with the queen and Prince Claudius."

"Father—!" He does not heed me and speeds away down the corridor.

I cannot imagine what has happened, but I know I must hurry. I wish I had time to wash my hands – the fingers of my writing hand are stained with ink and hardly qualify to be presentable in court. But I know I have no time, so I lift my skirts and hurry to the grand hall.

When I arrive, it seems as though most of the court is gathered there. I see Adelaide and Fernanda in the crowd, standing with their heads together, no doubt discussing the gossip on what has occurred.

However, as I draw closer, I see that their faces are white. Fernanda turns to me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Oh, Ophelia…" Fernanda's voice trails of. She looks to be fighting tears. She regains her composure and starts again. "The most terrible thing has happened, or so the whispers say. They say…" She blinks back tears and presses a hand to her mouth. She cannot speak.

"They are saying that the king—" Adelaide is interrupted as Fernanda hisses an epithet at her. Adelaide blanches.

"It's too awful to say!" Fernanda cries, not bothering to apologize.

I never thought I would see the day when I would have difficulty getting information from my two friends. "They are saying that the king what?" I ask.

Adelaide and Fernanda exchange looks of helplessness. My heart begins to sink like a stone as a feeling of dread overcomes me.

"Ophelia," Adelaide begins, but a sudden commotion interrupts her.

Gertrude, pale and willowy, has appeared, leaning on the king's brother for support. My fears are now the worst. With them are my father and a man dressed in black physician's robes. As they draw closer to the dais at the hall, I can see them more clearly. Gertrude's eyes are red and puffy, but she is not shedding tears. Prince Claudius' face is stony.

My father stands at the edge of the dais and addresses the court in an odd voice – loud, yet diminished. As we are silent his voice echoes eerily around us.

"Lords and ladies of the court," he begins, "it is my solemn duty to announce to you all that our beloved ruler, King Hamlet, has passed from this world this afternoon."

The gasps around the court from the ladies only prove that whatever gossip Adelaide and Fernanda have heard was true. I can feel blood draining from my face. The king, dead?

We all fall silent as my father continues. "I have spoken with the king's physician and he has decreed it to be a natural and painless death…"

It is as if my hearing has been shut away. My father's voice fades and all I can see are the faces of the court's nobles, bowing their heads in respect for our lost monarch. I feel the prickle of tears behind my eyes and blink quickly to persuade them not to fall. I do not wish to cry. Not now. I always weep. I shall not weep…

The king is dead. Long live the king.


	9. Bittersweet

_IX. Bittersweet _

The castle mourns. It seems strange to say that a majestic complex of towers and turrets can mourn, but in the passing of a king, anything is possible. Even the weather seems to mourn, as we have had nothing but cloud, cold winds and rain since the king's death.

The funeral preparations are in order to lay the king in his final resting place. Messengers have gone out. The prince has been called back from Wittenberg.

This is not the way I would have chosen for our reunion to occur.

Father has sent for Laertes; he will return from France. Another bittersweet reunion that is in store for me.

Prince Claudius has quickly taken control of the affairs of state. His right to the throne has been given to the council who decides such things. Were Hamlet here, his name would also be under consideration… Alas, he is not here and thus duties fall to Prince Claudius alone. Denmark is an elective monarchy. I do not fully understand how such things work, but what I know is this: for the time being, Prince Claudius is in charge.

Silence has overtaken Elsinore as if we were haunted by some paranormal force. I cannot explain it; perhaps it is grief playing tricks on the mind, I have no seen Adelaide or Fernanda for days; they have confined themselves to their rooms, claiming to be ill, or so I heard. I cannot rest. I cannot think. There is little for me to do, for whenever I set about accomplishing a task, my mind cannot settle for it and I abandon it for something else.

I find myself pacing the empty halls and corridors, listening to the echo of my footsteps on the flagstones. I find the window that I was so fond of gazing out of when I first came to this place. From it, you can see the whole of the rugged landscape stretching out for miles in quiet majesty. I perch myself by the window and stare at the horizon, but no thoughts come to me. My mind is blank.

"Lady Ophelia?"

My eyes snap open. I had not realized they were shut. I slip down from my seat and look at my speaker. It is a young girl, one of Gertrude's newest maids.

"Yes?"

"The queen wishes to see you in her quarters," she says, curtseying clumsily. She is very young, almost too young to be a maid, and obviously thrilled to be playing messenger.

"Very well," I say. "Thank you."

I take off down the hall, the maid following. I tell her as gently as I can that I know the way and that she does not need to guide me. My words sting her a little, but I do not care. I wish to be alone for as long as I can manage, but I cannot refuse the summons of a queen, just as I cannot refuse to the summons of a grieving friend.

Oh, what is wrong with me? I do not understand this depression that has plagued me since the king's death.

"Ophelia," Gertrude greets me warmly when I arrive. She sweeps me into an embrace and invites me in.

Her quarters are lavish and warm. There is a fire crackling in her hearth. At her request, I sit on one of the elegantly decorated couches by the fire, resting my weary feet.

"You look tired," Gertrude says.

I nod. "I am restless. I have walked this castle from hall to hall and yet I cannot find peace for myself."

Gertrude bows her head. "Strange times follow the death of a king," she says quietly.

"The country mourns," I say, my fingers fiddling with the skirt of my black gown, "yet all I can do myself is feel… distracted. My father's tasks are endless, yet I, his daughter, cannot commit to any task."

Gertrude purses her lips. "The feeling will pass," she says gently. "Such is the way of grief. We all grieve in our own way."

I look at her, meeting her eyes. "I would rather not have sensed it at all."

Gertrude sighs sadly. "The living pass on. Such is the way of life the Lord has given us. Someday you will learn to accept it with greater ease."

"Is that why you do not weep?"

She pauses. There is a heavy silence in the room. "Indeed," she says finally. "I cannot bring myself to tears, as I know my husband – a good man – is in a better place. All I can do is surround myself with the kindness of friends and learn to go on without him."

"Hm." This is all I can say in return – a wordless, meaningless sound. In my mind, I would tell her, _so that is why you do not look the part of a grieving widow_, but I feel disrespectful even to think it. As such, it remains unsaid.

"Light your heart, child," Gertrude says. "The world will go on, as it always does."

"No," I say slowly "I only realize that I never once said a word to the king, your husband. I knew him as my king, but… I never spoke to him. In some ways, I regret that now." My voice sounds strange even as I speak the works. I do not know what I am saying.

There is a knock on the door. A maid enters and curtseys to the queen.

"What is it?" Gertrude asks.

"Prince Claudius respectfully wishes to speak with you, Your Majesty," the maid says. She eyes me and adds, "In private."

"Very well," Gertrude sighs. "Ophelia?"

"I take my leave, my lady," I murmur quietly, rising to my feet. As I exit the rooms, I pass the late king's brother. I curtsey politely to him and continue on my way. No doubt they have familial business to discuss.

I spend the rest of the day on my own, even though I feel deprived of energy and void of thoughts, a state anyone's conversations surely would have mended. As the sun begins to sink behind the horizon, I search out my father. He is weary, but pleased to see me.

"Daughter," he says by way of greeting.

I go to him and embrace him tightly. He seems almost shocked by this gesture.

"Ho, now, Ophelia," he says, gently releasing my grip. "What ails you?"

"I feel shameful, Father," I say, rushing the words out so they provide me with the least amount of pain. It is hurtful to admit it even to myself, though I feel better to have told it to someone else.

His eyes narrow and he invites me to sit on a chair across from him. He says nothing, but rather looks at me intently, giving me his undivided attention.

"With the death of the king, my brother returns," I say. I keep my thoughts about the prince to myself for the time being. "It is because of his passing that I may see Laertes again."

My father sighs. "There, now, Ophelia. You must put this silliness behind you. Is that all you thought? It is shameful, yes, but show that you are grieving for our great monarch and it will pass."

I bow my head. "Yes, Father." Little does he know that those words were more about the prince than my brother.

"Is that all?" he asks, standing as he speaks. "I have much more work to complete before the day's end and I have little time to spare."

"That is all, Father," I say. I thank him and move to the door. I pause and turn back to him as a thought surfaces in my mind. "The prince shall be crowned upon his return," I say. "A bittersweet homecoming: a funeral and a coronation."

My father shakes his head and opens the door for me. "Perhaps," as he invites me to exit. "Such is the way of kings."


	10. Reunion

_X. Reunion _

I find my recent mood intolerable. I cannot take this depression any longer, even though the castle thrusts it upon us. Today, I seek out an escape. I head to the library, where I wish to encase myself in the written word and lose myself to my imagination.

The library is empty when I arrive, as it often is. I walk among the shelves like a ghost until I force myself to select tomes at random. I pull several from the shelves and settle by the window. I reach for the first one and blow dust from its cover.

It seems no one reads these books but me.

It is a tome of tales, many of them familiar to me as they are versions of stories I heard verbally when growing up. I force myself to become lost in them, but it takes work as my mind refuses to accept the words written on the page. So stubborn am I that I force myself to ignore the commotion that takes place within the courtyard sometime in the late morning, even though the library windows overlook it.

Time passes. My eyes are bleary. I am sure I have missed luncheon, but strangely, I am not famished. I realize that I have been staring at the same page for more than five minutes at least. My mind pleads with me to go do something else – even listening to Adelaide's gossip – but I persist. I am stubborn.

"Beautiful is the lady who does persist in her studies while those who surround her mourn," a soft voice behind me says.

I snap out of my stupor. I raise my head, hardly daring to believe it. One year since I heard that voice, one year… am I sure I recognize it?

"Alas," I say, "I am stubborn and hope to succeed, even though my mind does not agree with me." I rise to my feet and turn – and there he is, standing several paces away, dressed plainly in black. I feel as though I could fly; yet I stay here, feet firmly planted to the library's floor. I do not know how I should act. Part of me wants to run and embrace him, another part wants to stand and stare at him. It has been so long since I last saw him. I realize with a jolt that I have forgotten details of what he looks like, even as they are renewed before my eyes.

I stand foolishly, rooted to the ground, my eyes drawn to his face, my heart pounding in my chest. I do not know if I want to laugh or cry, or both. Not knowing what else to do, I curtsey.

"My lord."

He laughs, but there is a bittersweet sound to it. He crosses the distance between us and gently raises my chin with his fingers so that our eyes meet.

"None of that," he says, kissing my cheek. He softly threads his fingers through a loose lock of my hair and kisses my other cheek. "Today I am many things before a prince," he whispers in my ear.

His hands move to my back and he draws me close. I throw my arms around his neck and my lips find his. I am lost in my joy as he kisses me – joy that he is here again, joy that I may see him and touch him, joy that my heart never thought I could know. Before I know it, the tears I have held back since the king's death come running forth uncontained. I gasp and draw back, looking blinkingly into his concerned expression.

He gently rubs a finger across my cheek, wiping my tears away. "Black does not suit you," he says, glancing at my gown. "Nor do tears."

"This is not how I would have seen our reunion," I say quietly. "I am sorry for your father's death."

His expression hardens. "They say he dies a natural death. Painless and fast. A good death for an old man. Do not say you are sorry – you cannot apologize for something beyond your control."

"Nevertheless, I am sorry."

"Thank you."

He holds me in his arms and we stay like that as the minutes pass, drinking in each other's presence and fighting pas the grief that has brought us together again.

Hamlet presses his forehead against mine; his eyes remain closed. "I say," he murmurs, "there shall be no more tears. The dead cannot return to us; let us be happy that they lived a good life. In the bleakness that surrounds me, there is but one ray that lights my heart, and that is you." He kisses me lightly. Smiling, he draws away, one hand resting on the side of my face. "So no more tears."

I press my hand against his. "No more tears," I echo.

Suddenly, he laughs and it is as if all the thoughts weighing on his mind are lifted. "Oh, how I have missed you, Ophelia," he says.

"And you."

"My heart thinks me a fool for staying away so long," he says. "Letters do not do your presence justice. A foolish man am I."

I smile – truly and genuinely for the first time in months. "You love me so, sir," I say.

"Yes," he says, stroking my hair once again. "I love thee so. No manner of grief can change that."

We both hear footsteps and draw away from each other. I retreat to my table by the window where my tomes lie open as a servant comes flying into the room.

"My lord," he says upon seeing the prince, "your uncle wishes to speak to you immediately in his quarters."

"I will come," he responds and departs the library.

I attempt to return to my reading, but it is impossible. Excitement is roused within me and I do not know what to do with myself. I cannot concentrate. Finally, I decide to return the tomes to their proper, dusty spots, as they have no use for me now.

The loose lock of hair falls in front of my eyes as I lean over the table to gather the tomes. I brush it away hastily and my fingers come across something rough and cold lodged in one of my braids. I realize it is parchment and I pull it out to look at it. It is merely a small scrap, but I unroll it, knowing that there is only one way it could have gotten in my hair and only one person could have put it there.

Written in his familiar, slanted script are words that cause my heart to beat. I steady my breath, never having felt so alive as in this moment, today.

_Lady, _

_If thou dost love me so, meet me tonight and I shalt prove that I have never ceased to love thee._

I fold the note and tuck it into my bodice. Returning my borrowed books to their rightful places, I leave the library, wishing for the night to come with all its moonlit graces.


	11. Change

_XI. Change _

I am rosy when dawn wakes me with its gentle golden light. Knowing that I must return to my quarters before it is discovered that I am gone, I try to convince myself to rise from the bed, but I have an overpowered desire to lie there, content, for the time being.

No. I must go. There will be other mornings where I can stay where I am.

I sit up slowly, the sheets twisting around me. I look to my right and smile to myself. He remains asleep, his expression calmed by slumber. So peaceful, so tranquil… Why can it not always be so simple?

"Ophelia…" He murmurs my name but does not wake.

"I am here, dear one," I murmur gently, stroking his hair with my fingers. "As I always shall be. Say the word and I shall be there."

I kiss his forehead and slip quietly from the bed. I move about the room, collecting my garments and re-dressing myself. When I am finished, I return to the bed and sit quietly beside him.

"Good morrow, sweet prince," I murmur in his ear.

He stirs, but does not wake.

I laugh quietly to myself and rise from my spot. As I make to leave, I feel him gently catch my arm with his hand. I turn back to him and a breath of surprise escapes me as he presses his lips to mine.

"Good morrow, dearest one."

"I must go," I say softly.

He kisses me again. "I know."

"I should go," I say, but I do not leave.

"I know."

I kiss his cheek and slide off the bed. "Farewell, Hamlet."

He lies back in his pillows. "Farewell."

As I cross the room, I hear his voice call out to me.

"Ophelia!"

I turn.

"Thank you," he says.

"I must go."

He nods.

I burst into laughter, curtsey mockingly, and depart.

Once I am back in my own rooms, I hurriedly undress and throw myself into my own bed. When my maid Catherine comes to tell me it is time to rise, it is as if I had spent the night here instead of elsewhere. As I ready myself for the day, I remember my ways from the previous year. It is a difficult deception to maintain when there are so many eyes watching, but it is well worth the price.

That morning, I am accompanied by Adelaide and Fernanda. Gertrude has no need for us – she still has much business to attend to dealing with the affairs of state, especially since Hamlet has now returned. We sit in my rooms, working on our needlework to keep our fingers busy, enjoying each other's company as we have been absent from each other for many the day.

"You look positively cheerful, Ophelia," Fernanda says. "What has changed so suddenly?"

Adelaide looks at me eagerly. I smile to myself and shrug; I will not say. This has a predicted effect on Adelaide; she rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically.

"Again?" she pouts. "No information whatsoever—"

"There is nothing to tell," I say, but with good humour. I reach for new thread.

"Hmph." Adelaide puts her nose in the air. "I do believe the only reason she appears happy is because she is no longer wearing black. Everyone looks dreary in black. Without the black, she no longer looks dreary."

Fernanda and I exchange looks and burst into laughter. Adelaide says it as if it were a crime, but we are no longer required to wear mourning garments if we do not desire.

"I'll have you know that my father, the Lord Chamberlain himself," I say with emphasis, "ceased to wear his black garb some days ago. I am his daughter; I follow his example." That is not the reason I wear lighter clothing today, but they do not need to know I have taken the prince's comment to heart.

"You can be truly irritating some days," Adelaide says, jabbing her needle into the white material.

Fernanda merely rolls her eyes. "What is it that you are embroidering?" she asks.

I show her. "Violets."

Fernanda's eyebrows go up and she glances at Adelaide, who moves closer to see. Adelaide glances between the two of us, not comprehending the significance.

"The flower of faithfulness," Fernanda says in explanation to our younger friend. She eyes me suspiciously. "Are you hiding something, my lady?"

"Don't let your tongue wander ahead of your mind," I say reproachfully. "Violets are my favourite flower, that is all."

Adelaide chortles. "Roses are so much more romantic," she says. "They are my favourite."

"Yes, I do imagine they are."

"They're also adventurous!" Adelaide exclaims after a moment.

"Of course, Adelaide," I say placidly, stitching steadily.

Adelaide opens her mouth to argue loudly, but Catherine appears and interrupts her tirade before it can even begin.

"Lady Ophelia, your brother has arrived and wishes to speak with you."

I nearly drop my needlework in surprise. I had no idea Laertes would be arriving so soon. "Yes, of course!" I say, barely able to conceal my excitement. "Let him in."

I almost do not recognize the man who walks through the door as my brother. His time spent in France has much changed him in the past year and a half. When I last saw him, he was small and pale, not much taller than I am. He is now of a towering height, his skin tanned by a southern sun's rays and he has a beard.

"Sister," he says, breaking into a smile.

"Brother!" I exclaim, leaping up and embracing him. He is momentarily embarrassed, as Adelaide and Fernanda are in our company, but he relaxes and returns the embrace. I draw away, beaming, and indicate my friends.

"Brother," I say, "these are my friends, the Ladies Adelaide and Fernanda, also ladies-in-waiting to the queen."

He bows respectfully to each of them and they curtsey in return. Adelaide's eyes linger mischievously on my brother – I know immediately that she has taken a fancy to him.

"If you would excuse us, my ladies," Laertes says to them. "My sister and I have much to catch up on."

Adelaide giggles and curtseys again. Fernanda appears as though she will chortle, but she manages to control herself. "Of course, my lord," she says politely. She shoots a look at Adelaide and they leave my rooms, shaking with silent laughter.

When they are gone, Laertes lets out a breath of surprise. "I never thought that you would choose such frivolous companions, Ophelia."

I laugh. "I like them. Despite all their frivolities, we get along well. Be wary of Adelaide – she has her eye on any handsome young man who would serve as a suitable husband."

"Husband?" Laertes shakes his head. "Surely she is too young for such an alliance."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," I say. "She is now fifteen and sees everything as a romanticized fairy tale."

Laertes laughs and embraces me again. "I have missed you, sister."

"And I, you." I pause. "Shall we take a walk?" I suggest.

"It is cold out," he warns.

"And that is the purpose for which cloaks were made," I counter.

"Very well," Laertes agrees.

We tread the familiar paths of the garden once we reach the outdoors. It is bitterly cold and frost lines the ground. We are the only ones present – which suits us well as it enables us to talk freely and treat each other as siblings without the formality.

I inquire about his life in France. He is very happy there, and tells me that he will insist to Father that he remain in that fair, green country.

"I have an affection for Denmark," he says, "but my heart belongs to France. It is too cold up here amongst the rocks and snow and sea."

"It is not at all like that in the summer," I say. "It is fairer than France, I believe. Do you not remember when we were small children and ran about the grounds in the summer warmth?"

"I do," he admits, "but it is a far distant memory. I fear I belong to France now."

I sigh. "A loss, dear brother, for I belong solely to Denmark now."

"Indeed." He stares off into the distance for a moment before he returns to the conversation. "And how are your days amongst the court?"

"Pleasant," I answer.

"Father says that apart from those two ladies, you have few friends," Laertes says. His tone is neutral; I cannot tell if this concerns him or not.

"I do not enjoy the company of most courtiers," I say truthfully. "Nobles have an irredeemable pig-like quality to them and no matter how hard I try, I cannot stand it."

Laertes stares at me in shock. "Ophelia!"

I spread my hands. "Stay a while and observe. They are power-hungry and greedy and care for nothing but themselves."

"I cannot believe I hear such things from your lips!" he exclaims. "But I will very well consider it. Most courts resemble each other in some way. If I can survive France's court, Denmark's should have no effect on me."

I laugh. "How quaint, brother mine. Give it a few days and you will see why I prefer the company of intellectuals' dusty manuscripts."

"You have taken up scholarship?" he asks, wondrous and disapproving at the same time.

"I read from time to time. I enjoy it. That is all."

"Well," he says. "Well, well. That is interesting."

"There is no harm in it."

"And what brought on this eager scholarship?" he asks.

"A meeting with the prince some year and several months ago," I say honestly.

"Ah, yes," Laertes says. "Denmark's famed intellectual Prince Hamlet. They say in the country that he would teach the peasants to read if he could."

"Do they?" I have never heard of that before.

"Have you re-acquainted yourself with the prince now that he is returned from Wittenberg?"

My brother's question causes me to blush. I turn my face away so my flushed cheeks will be less noticeable.

"Yes," I say shortly.

"I see." He looks pensive, but I do not wish to inquire as to what he is thinking. To stave off his next question, I speak hurriedly.

"I am chilled, Brother. Let us return indoors."

He looks at me with concern. "Of course, Sister," he says and escorts me towards the castle steps.

Once inside, we are greeted by our father's servant Reynaldo who tells my brother that Father wishes to see him immediately. I bid Laertes farewell and seek out Adelaide and Fernanda. When I find them, they demand information of me, inquiring whether or not Laertes spoke of either of them to me and chastising me for not mentioning that I had a brother.

My response, though a bit cruel, is simple. "My brother's heart belongs in France."

That ceases their endless storm of questions and we continue our needlework in moderate silence.

This evening, we are all called to court. The time is unusual, but every courtier responds. It usually takes hours to dress in finery, but we all manage at short notice. Adelaide complains under her breath as we go to assist the queen, but no one ever pays attention to her complaints these days. There is nothing we can do about it, after all.

It takes time to assemble the court, but we all know that tonight's message will be important. After Adelaide, Fernanda and I aid the queen, she dismisses us and we rush to take our places amongst the court. I find my seat beside Laertes.

"Do you know what is happening?" I ask.

"This country is in the process of great change," he answers solemnly.

The queen steps forward, resplendent in her silver-trimmed black gown. Prince Claudius is at her side. A few paces behind them is Hamlet, also garbed in black. His expression is one of stone. I purse my lips; he does not look content, not as he did this morning. I am concerned for him.

My father appears. At Queen Gertrude's approval, he addresses the court.

"My lords, my ladies. The electoral council has spoken. It is time to elect the next king, and they have chosen Prince Claudius as the king's successor. May the king rest in peace. Long live the king!"

There is applause all around, but I am sitting as still as stone. I cannot believe what I have just heard. Prince Claudius is king? King Hamlet's brother succeeds the throne?

I frown, even as Prince – King – Claudius steps forward with Gertrude on his arm. He begins to speak to the court, but I do not hear his words. My hearing has faded again. I am lost in thought and have no time for flowery language.

It is my understanding that members of the royal family can lay claim to the throne, but the electoral council has final decision as to who is monarch. Normally, the monarch's first-born son's claim is validated before all others. But here, the king's _brother_ has laid claim.

I look up. King Claudius is speaking still. I catch Hamlet's eye – there is a blaze of fury there that only I see. He lowers his head and refuses to look at me.

Did he refuse the throne? I have to wonder. And why was the council's decision made the day after he returned?

I lean over to Laertes just as King Claudius finishes his speech and the court bursts into more applause.

"Why would the prince throw away his birthright?" I whisper, the storm of sound covering my words.

"It is not for you to understand the workings of politics, sister," he replies.

I sit back in my seat, my hands marionetted to join the applause. I am fully unsatisfied with my brother's answer.


	12. Nightfall

_XII. Nightfall_

The castle is ablaze in preparations. The funeral of a king and the coronation of another takes time, energy and resources. Though King Hamlet has already been interred in a small service held only for members of the royal family, there is still the state funeral to attend to. My father is busily overseeing much of the business as possible – he is to be King Claudius' Lord Chamberlain now, just one of many things the king is to inherit from his late brother.

It has been several days since my father addressed the court. I have tried to speak to Hamlet but I am unable to find him. I am concerned; I seem to be the only one who took note of his expression that evening – not even Gertrude noticed – and I sense there may be something terribly wrong.

Later today, I discover that it seems that no one has seen or spoken to the prince since King Claudius' coronation was announced. The servants whisper that he will not leave his quarters. Having heard this, I know there is but one more thing to try. Even though it is now of a late hour and I know it will look suspicious to those watching me, I convince myself to seek out the prince in his own apartments. In the event that word reaches my father of this, I will come up with a logical explanation then. I do not have time to worry about my father's reactions now.

A manservant opens the door for me and I tell him that I wish to speak to the prince. After a moment, I am ushered inside and the servant departs.

Hamlet sits by his hearth, looking pale and tired. There are dark bags beneath his half-closed eyes and his black clothing is rumpled. There is a stale smell about the place.

"What has become of you?"

His head lolls on his shoulders and his eyes open. "Ask wretched providence that takes first my father from me and second my throne." His voice is hollow and hoarse, and some of his words are slurred. From the way he speaks, I have a strong suspicion he has been drinking.

I look at him in horror; I have never seen him like this. I move to his side and take his hands in mind. "Do not say that," I tell him. He looks away, unable to meet my gaze. "Do not blame providence for what should and should not have happened! It is something beyond your control."

"I should be allowed to control my own fate," he says dejectedly, speaking to the stone walls. His fingers clench around mine. "I am a prince, am I not?"

"No man controls providence," I state flatly. "Fate is God's dominion, one which we may not cross. Any man who could control fate would be a terrible monster. We must live, and live as happily as we can, no matter what happens to us along the long and winding road. Did you not once say that to me?"

He scowls. He seems to have lost most of my words. "Damn God's dominion, then, for I have no wish to longer be a part of it!"

"My lord!" I exclaim, shocked.

His grip on my fingers relaxes and he raises a hand to his face. "I apologize, Ophelia," he says, "I am being unreasonable. Forgive me."

I sigh. "Why do you deny your birthright?"

He looks at me for a long time, his eyes unblinking. The effect is unnerving. "It is not mine to claim," he finally says, his voice ghostly.

"Why not? You are the king's son!"

He shakes his hand, his hands grasping mine again. "I am no longer the king's son." There is a dead look to his eye. "I am the king's nephew now, and as the king's nephew, I have no interest in ruling."

I cannot bear to see him so dejected. "The people love you, my lord." I choke the words out.

"Don't call me that—"

"Your country loves you!" I insist, my voice rising over his. There are tears in my eyes once more. Damn my eyes. I furiously blink them back.

"The people love my uncle, as my mother clearly does." He spits out the last phrase.

I am taken aback by this ferocity. "Your mother is in mourning and your uncle is family. I do not know what you mean."

His nostrils flare. "Have you not seen the way they look at each other?" he hisses. "As a lady-in-waiting and my mother's favourite, you must have noticed! Poor eyesight have you if you have not!"

I rise to my feet and glare down at him. "I do not know what you mean," I repeat icily. My eyes are stinging.

He returns my fierce expression, but suddenly he sees something in my face that upsets him greatly. Slowly, he loses his intensity and his rage diminishes. "Perhaps I am seeing things," he says bleakly, "grieving as I am…" He trails off. "The council sees no opposition to my uncle's claim to the throne. I was not there, and he was. It is as simple as that." He leans back into his chair. "I am better off in Wittenberg."

"No." I kneel at his side again. The word is more a plea than anything else. "You belong here, with your family. You cannot leave until your father's funeral and your uncle's coronation."

He looks at me sadly. "And what do you wish, Ophelia?"

"I wish for you to stay here," I whisper. "You are still heir to the throne."

He stands, crossing the room to his window. I stand as well, but watch him from my place by the hearth. His back is to me as he speaks, outlined by the silvery glow of an evening moon. For now, we need our distance.

"I should have been there, Ophelia," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I should have been there, at the end. I last saw my father a year ago, and now I shall never see him again. I should have been there when he drew his last breath. I am an ungrateful son, one who took my king-father and country for granted."

I stand helpless, uncertain of what to do. I have not lost my father, and my mother died when I was very young, I scarcely remember it.

He laughs hoarsely and throws his head back. "This is the madness of grief," he announces. "All those who have lost their fathers have felt its pain; all those who will lose their fathers shall feel its cruel sting."

I tremble, whether from cold or fear or anxiety or a combination of all three and more, I do not doubt. I cross to him and put my hand on his shoulder. The risen moon is bright tonight, but its silver light is not one to inspire poets. It is a ghost light, one come to honour the dead.

"What do you need?" I ask quietly. My lips brush his. The tears in my eyes finally begin to fall, shed for him and his grief. "Tell me what you need."

I kiss him again and feel his hands clasp around mine, gently this time. He meets my eyes.

"I need you to be Ophelia."

I nod, tears freely falling down my cheeks as I kiss him again. I let go of his hands, withdrawing a folded sheet of parchment I have carried with me these past few days and hand it to him.

"I wrote this on the day of your father's death," I explain softly. "I never finished it, but I wish for you to read it."

He takes it from me and opens it. The moon is bright enough that he does not need to return to the hearth for light. He eyes quickly read my words and his expression softens.

He sets the letter aside and embraces me. The kiss he bestows on me is one of thanks, but the flame that gives it life is the grief he cannot yet shed.

This night is the night I weep for him.


	13. Question

_XIII. Question_

Having never been married, I have never had the misfortune of losing a husband. However, in seeing how Hamlet grieves for his father and after hearing his enraged words about his mother, I cannot understand Gertrude's behaviour. I do not dare criticize a queen, but I have been thinking much about her condition and for a recent widow she is positively rosy. She gathers her ladies-in-waiting to her like a mother hen and we feast on courtly gossip in her apartments. Though she dons deepest black, her garb is decorated with a rainfall of new jewels and she acts as though she were wearing any other colour.

Gertrude is merry, laughing with us and telling us stories of her own, ones that delight minds such as Adelaide's. It is as if the queen has forgotten all her years married to King Hamlet.

I long to ask her about it. None of the others are suspicious, save Adelaide and Fernanda, and that may be either because they are nosier than the others or my current attitude has begun to inspire them.

"I think the queen is in love," Adelaide says giddily, bouncing up and down. It is early in the evening and we are alone for once.

"Have you noticed her new jewels?" Fernanda says. "The white diamond pendant she had fastened around her neck—"

"Of course I noticed, I helped her put it on," Adelaide interrupts.

"I wish I had something that fine," Fernanda sighs longingly.

"Oh, who cares?" Adelaide snaps. "It's always jewels this and jewels that with you, Fernanda!"

"It is not!" Fernanda retorts.

Adelaide flounces her hair. "You do too!" she shoots back.

I cannot help but roll my eyes at the two of them and their argument – they are being endearingly ridiculous.

"Why can't you see past all the glitz and glamour?" Adelaide continues, grating Fernanda for all she is worth.

Fernanda's eyes flash dangerously. "Because I am a noble woman and not a peasant girl!" she retorts, holding her head high.

Adelaide raises an eyebrow. "Sir Edward would wish that you were," she says coyly.

They both glance at me and the three of us cannot help but burst into laughter. Sir Edward had never recovered from the blow I had dealt him in the summer. Though it was commonly known he had been making eyes at Fernanda, everyone knew that he would not succeed even in speaking to her.

The laughter dies down. We have lost much of the inspiration for humour since the king's death and winter's onset.

Adelaide lounges in her chair, her legs thrown indecently over its arms as she chews on her thumbnail in silence. "I think," she announces after a moment, "that even if the queen were a peasant girl, she would look the same."

"Adelaide!" Fernanda exclaims. "What a horrid thing to say! Do not let anyone hear you say it!"

"Not horrid!" Adelaide protests before Fernanda has even finished speaking. "A… round-about compliment, I believe. The queen is in love."

"This again?" Fernanda says. Even though her words imply a worn-out topic for gossip, her curious expression betrays her. "The queen in love? So soon after the old king's death? Isn't it a trite indecent even to consider such a thing?"

"I believe the queen is in love," I say quietly.

My friends turn to me, shocked.

"Why, Ophelia!"

"I thought you would never suggest such a thing!"

"Wait!" Adelaide sits up straight in her chair. "She recognizes the queen's symptoms because she has them herself!" She points at me triumphantly. "Proof that Ophelia has a secret lover!"

"You never give up, do you?" I say unenthusiastically.

Adelaide smiles like an angel.

"The queen is in love?" Fernanda asks.

"I believe so," I say.

"How do we go about proving it?" Adelaide asks eagerly.

"We don't," I tell her firmly. "I do. The queen is… more friend than majesty to me. I shall simply ask her myself."

"Will you tell us what she says?"

"That depends on her answer, Adelaide."

I am not going to spread the queen's secrets for her, but I have to know for sure. Hamlet thinks his mother and uncle's connection is closer than grieving widow and comforting brother-in-law. He told me to look with my eyes… I have the ability to look. Can I confirm his suspicions? What will I do if I find them to be true? I partially fear an answer, because I do not want to believe that dear Gertrude, my queen, is susceptible to such depravities as courting a member of her own family, and so soon after her late husband's death. It was family by marriage, but family nonetheless…

The next afternoon, when Gertrude dismisses the others, I approach her cautiously on the topic.

"There is some matter of important I wish to discuss with you, my lady," I say.

"Yes, Ophelia," she says as she sits by her hearth. "What is it?"

I swallow hard. I am not sure I can ask such impertinent a question, even though I must somehow bring myself to do so… I must have the answer from her, for the sake of honest truth.

Gertrude notes my expression. "Dear child, you look ill! Whatever is the matter?" She comes and sits by me. "Tell me, Ophelia."

"Are you truly still grieving, Gertrude?" I ask quietly.

Her face falls. "I see. So you wonder and ask. I knew you would soon." She pauses and for a long while stares into nothing, contemplating how to tell me. "I cannot contain my happiness for long. I can no longer grieve. I wear the black as a sign of respect for my late husband, but I have said my goodbyes. I move on."

"Do you love again?" I am timid in my question.

Gertrude laughs softly. "Dear Ophelia," she says fondly. "How innocent you can be. Love can cure all things, if it persists."

So she is truthfully in love – as her son suspected. As her ladies-in-waiting suspected. As I suspected.

There is only one man with whom she can be in love. I have seen him pass through her door with my own eyes, on the pretence of discussing the affairs of the country. Perhaps love is the affairs of country.

I rise to my feet. "I do not think your son will approve."

She shakes her head and invites me to leave. "I do not live by rules created and maintained by my son," she says. "My life is mine alone to live."


	14. Burden

_XIV. Burden _

The days pass slowly for me, even though every other courtier is abuzz with excitement. Winter is has come, blanketing the world in snowy white, but the court refuses to submit to the ice and cold. Instead, the castle is as warm and bright as it is in the summertime. One could describe it as festive.

I am not preoccupied with festivities.

My time is now divided in three – with Gertrude, with Adelaide and Fernanda, and with Hamlet. All the while, I mull over the complexities of the royal family: Hamlet's love for me, Gertrude's supposed love for her brother-in-law, the growing rift between loving mother and son. I have not yet said anything to the prince about his mother's words to me. I know that they will only cause brooding, which he does enough of. I seem to be one of few who cares for this melancholy symptom, and I would not like to aggravate it.

Gertrude's revelation weighs heavily on my mind. The more I think of it, the more the knowledge of her love for King Claudius becomes apparent. Soon, I begin to wonder how I could not have seen it before. Still, I keep my lips sealed. I must – out of respect for the queen, and out of fear for Hamlet's reaction. However, the more time I spend with him, the more I know I cannot keep this secret from him. His suspicions about his mother have long been in place. Part of me knows that I must tell him and confirm it, out of respect for him.

Who do I respect more? The man I love, or my queen, who has been a good friend to me this past year?

I fear it may just drive me mad if I cannot decide.

Laertes comes searching for me. I have not seen him in days and my absence has concerned him. I have missed my brother, but I have been preoccupied with more trying matters recently.

"What trying matters?" he inquires as we walk through the halls, castle-bound by a heavy snowfall outside.

I sigh. I cannot tell him, and it is yet another thing I must keep secret from him. I have been shaded in lies ever since our reunion; I do not like it, but it is for the better. How many burdens I am forced to carry in these days.

"Matters of a womanly kind."

"Oh."

I know that I have chosen the right words as his interest immediately fails.

"I only ask, Sister," he says, "because I am concerned for your well-being."

"You have nothing to be concerned about, Laertes," I tell him. "I am in good hands here and live a good life."

"Ah," he replies, "but I am your brother, and thus it is my duty to be concerned for you, dear sister."

"All the more for me to assure you that I am fine," I say. I raise an eyebrow. "Can we put duty aside for one day?"

He laughs, amused by my comments, and takes my arm. Together we walk to the top of a gallery over-looking a wide hall, where there are several courtiers (mostly noblewomen) gazing at the recreational fencing taking place below. Laertes has a wish to pass by, but I persuade him to stop. Laying my hands across the balcony rail, I peer down at the hall. The prince is among the sportsmen below. Though I am in plain view up here in the gallery, he shows no sign that he knows I am present, just as I do not make it evident to that I am watching the prince.

Laertes is still laughing. "I feel abandoned!" he says lightly. "My sister is engaged in her own frivolities and my father is securing the affairs of state. What is a poor man to do?" He walks to my side and places a brotherly hand on my shoulder.

"What shall you do?" I respond archly. "Weep until your eyes have dried? Or perhaps you could join them below." I indicate the fencers. "Father has informed me that you fight well."

"I have been in constant training, yes." He looks pensive. "Perhaps I will fight with them one day, but not now. Now I wish to spend time with my dearest sister."

I turn to him and smile sweetly. "As do I, Brother." Out of the corner of m eye, I see Hamlet raise his face in my direction. I nod to him as discreetly as I can.

"Something happen?" Laertes asks.

"Oh! No. It is nothing."

We continue our way down the gallery. Laertes glances at the fencers below once more, but does not pursue the subject.

We enjoy a good solid two hours of each other's company, discussing childhood memories and laughing, as siblings do. It is good to spend time with my brother. Eventually, he has duties that he must take care of and he must leave me. It is now that my previous thoughts – released by Laertes' presence – return to me. Gertrude, King Claudius, Hamlet…

I cannot bear it any longer. I must tell him. If I love him, I must tell him what I know.

I run to his apartments, and when he greets me, he is freshly bathed, having completed his fencing. When he sees my wild expression, he immediately becomes concerned.

"Ophelia, what is it?"

"Your mother." Suddenly, the words burst forth, falling over each other. "I did not want to tell you because it is her affairs and it will hurt you, but I must tell you, I cannot keep it to myself any longer—"

"Slow down," he says, leading me to a chair. "You will choke on your own tongue if you speak that fast. What is it about my mother?"

My fingers twine together. I bite my lip. If I love him, I must respect him, therefore I must tell him.

"She is in love." My voice is subdued. "She no longer grieves for your father. And I am certain that your suspicions that the man she loves is your uncle are correct."

He stares at me. For a moment, his expression turns to stony anger, and he passes a hand across his face.

"I am sorry."

"It is not your fault." He kisses me gently on the forehead. "This concerns my mother. Thank you for telling me." With that, he turns away. I can already sense his anger.

I lower my head in silence.

_Oh, Gertrude, I am sorry, but I had to tell him… even though it was not for me to say. _


	15. Paramour

_XV. Paramour_

If I waited, I could have avoided my inner guilt at revealing Gertrude's secret to her son. Not long after my revelation, King Claudius announces that on the same day he will be crowned king, he will marry the queen.

"Let us not be overshadowed by death and grief," he says near the end of his address. "There shall be joy in the land."

Joy indeed. A state funeral, a coronation, and now a wedding… all within the same short timeframe, and now Yuletide approaches and celebrations of Christ's birth will join the other festivities. With an endless stream of merrymaking, it is as though most of us have forgotten that King Hamlet has died.

This announcement has made the court is ecstatic. It erupts into a chorus of heightened whispers, gossip travelling like wildfire in the summertime. When did the King begin to court the queen? So soon after the old king's death? How did they keep this romance secret? What of the prince? How does he view this unusual union?

I know exactly how the prince views his mother's union, and it is not with contentment and happiness. This opposes the court, which fully ignores the bizarreness of the king and queen's to-be marriage, even though in many eyes it could be viewed as nearly incestuous. They prefer to rejoice, as any excuse for revelry will catch their eye. Hamlet, meanwhile, broods, viewing this impending marriage with disdain. He refuses to cast off his sombre attire, as his mother has done, and frequently enlightens me on his oppositions to his mother's wedding. It makes my head hurt.

There comes a time when even I cannot accept such an attitude. I long to see him content again, but he insists on dwelling in the darkness places a human mind can go. This mourning phase threatens to take him over, and I cannot let that come to pass.

It is early in the mid-morning when I demand to be let into his apartments. He is, at first, confused as to why I am here, and initially demands that I leave.

"Sit and listen, my lord," I say severely, invoking a voice of authority I never knew I had. "I have a proposition to make."

"What?" He is still bleary-eyed.

"Let us take our horses and ride – far out from this dreary castle that clearly only breeds melancholy for you."

"Ophelia, what—"

I glare at him, adamant that I will have my way, for our sakes. "I have had enough of your brooding, my lord. I think a change is in order."

He looks at me guiltily. "There is snow outside," he begins in a feeble protest, but I interrupt him.

"And we are Danes," I say. "Snow is our birthright."

It takes some time, but we eventually make it out of the castle. I can almost feel the eyes of the court boring into my back and hear the chorus of gossiping whispers as we depart, but I no longer care. I wish not be distracted by the pettiness of the court today.

We ride down the familiar beaten paths in silence, our breath rising in the cold air. It is not snowing today, and thought the ground is blanketed by a fine layer of white, the sky is clear, ice blue and the sun streams down unguarded by cloud. In certain areas where its rays are the warmest, patches of deadened grass have begun to show through.

When we come across the willow I am so fond of, I quietly reign in my horse. The tree is dormant, having lost its leaves during autumn, and its branches are stiff and stone-like. It is like a statue of a willow, frozen in time. I dismount and lead my mare off the path and down the craggy way to the tree. Hamlet follows, not questioning my strange inspiration.

I draw a deep breath, the cold air stinging my eyes. Despite its frozen state, this is still one of my most beloved places in the world. The brook, usually loud and fast in the spring, is iced over, but in places it is cracked and trickles of water flow through. It is a shadow of its former self.

I reach up to examine one of the sleeping branches of my willow tree. How I hate winter – to have nature frozen in one state discourages me greatly.

"It is so lovely in the spring," I say.

"Do you come here often?"

"Yes," I answer. "Its frozen form saddens me, but like all beautiful things, nature has only put it to sleep. Come spring, its beauty will be renewed." I step toward him and take his hand. "Nothing stays dead forever. Your sadness and anger… It pains me to see you in such a way. Let go – there is happiness that comes from everything, even if it happens to be in disguise." I eye the frozen branches of the willow as I speak.

He laughs, but it is a hollow laugh. "Dear Ophelia, how you try to understand."

My eyes narrow. "What do I not understand?"

"The feeling of betrayal," he says sharply. "My mother to be married so soon after my father's death, and to my _uncle_ no less—"

"My lord," I begin.

"Do not call me that," he interrupts immediately.

I ignore his comment. I will call him what I will, when I will. "Perhaps I should not raise this question, but do you not love your uncle? He is family to you—"

"Ophelia," he says abruptly, "I may have loved my uncle once in my childhood, but in past years I have seen nothing in him but his ambition. Guiltless ambition. He takes what he wants, when he pleases." He pauses, an unsatisfied look on his face. "Perhaps that is why he married my mother – yet another possession to be had."

I frown. I do not like this description, even though it is apt of many marriages of which I know. But to think of the queen of Denmark as a possession to the king – surely the royal family is above such nonsense of the nobles?

No… the world is often a cruel place for women of my kind. It is my luck that I have encountered little of its sting so far.

"Perhaps he does love her," I say. "And love her truly, as I know your mother loves him."

Hamlet's expression darkens. "Love…" He shakes his head. "That man knows nothing of love."

I purse my lips. "You told me once that you believed your uncle to make a better king than you," I say. "Does that still hold true? Even for a man that you claim knows nothing about love?"

He looks at me sharply. "Power and politics are my uncle's interests," he says. "I have no doubt that a good king he will make – but good does not always equal right. I had hoped that I…" He closes his eyes. "No."

"What is it?"

"It is nothing," he says quietly. He opens his eyes, stroking my hair with his fingers. "My uncle knows nothing of love. He has utmost power and position, now. Perhaps my mother was fearful of losing hers... I do not see why she could love him." His hand falls to his side.

"Grief affects us all in strange ways," I say, echoing words that have been said to me many times. "And we find love where we least expect it. Maybe that is the answer."

I frown. Hamlet is forever preoccupied on the reasons behind his mother's decisions. Power, politics, greed, ambition… a refusal to step down from her position as queen. Yet as far as I can see, Gertrude's reasoning is the simplest and purest of all. Hamlet is complicating the situation further than it needs to, and by doing so is causing a rift between himself and his mother. Gertrude is hurt, he is hurt – is there no way to breach this gap?

"Can you not grant your mother one moment of happiness?" I blurt out, my irritation getting the better of me.

"Do you still defend my mother's decision?"

"I merely try to see it from her perspective," I say flatly, "out of respect for her and the friendship we have."

"And what of respect for my _father?_ My mother – _she_ is to be married to my uncle, his _brother_. Did she love my father not?"

We are standing close together; I can feel his hot, angry breath on my face.

"Greatly, I believe," I say.

"Then why does she behave thus?"

"I do not know! I cannot attempt to explain a woman's heart—"

"Women!" he snaps. "Indeed! If woman cannot explain her heart, what can man do to understand it? Women make little sense! Is woman's love so fickle that she would pass her heart to any man who catches her eye—?"

"Do you mock me, sir?" The words are past my lips before I have even considered them.

"What?"

There is a strange, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Do you doubt me, sir?"

"I…"

"Or are your words merely talk without thought?"

He passes a hand across his face as he realizes my interpretation of his words.

"Ophelia—"

"No!" I cry. "You say _woman's love _is fickle, and so I am included in your affront! Who answered every letter you wrote? Who waited, month after month, for you to return? Who remained faithful to an absent lover, even though the summer festivals this year could have provided a potential husband? Is fickle _woman's love_ responsible for actions such as that?" My voice breaks, echoing strangely around us in this empty, open place by the frozen brook. "If your mother has one fraction of the love I feel, then I can say that she could not rightly control her actions. She loves your uncle, Hamlet. He fills the void in her heart left by your father. Can you not let her have that happiness?"

We fall to silence. The air is still around us, with nothing but the sound of our breaths and the trickle of water escaping from its frozen prison behind us. He cannot meet my eyes for what seems to be a very long time.

"Could she not have waited?" he finally says. "Staved off such an affection until my father has at least been entered in his tomb?"

I bite my lower lip, uncertain of how to answer. This is something that the court whispers about fervently behind the new king's back. I believe that Gertrude should have waited, but I do know that love is very impatient.

Heavens, how I know that love is impatient.

"You know as well as I that love cannot always wait," I say quietly. I catch his eye. "I will always remember."

"Yes."

My fingers gently brush his cheek. "Oh, my love… I gave myself to you that night long ago because my heart could not be contained. Impatient, young love. I am yours forever now."

He catches my hand. "One's perception of forever does not always last an eternity."

"What do you mean?"

"I know what you expect of me, Ophelia—"

"Expect?"

"We have never truly discussed it, but yet the expectation is there. I see it in your eyes whenever we are together. The expectation that one day, lovers must marry."

My heart flutters, but the uncertainty in his voice stops it from flying away. I draw back. "What do you mean?"

His eyes flicker across my face with concern. "You want me to marry you. It is not just a want, it is a necessity for you. If I do not, you would be shamed forever."

I can already feel the colour leaving my face. I do not know where he is going with this. "My lord—"

"When you gave yourself to me, perhaps it was out of the passionate impatience of love, but it comes tied with an expectation."

"Hamlet." I seize his hand, bring his focus from his words to me. "I love you. Everything I have done has been because I love you. What more can I do?"

He looks at me, puzzled. "I do not need to ask you for anything."

"Then why this talk of expectations? You frighten me, talking as though you wish our relationship to end—"

"What?" He is truly astounded by this. "I never meant…! I never implied…!" He groans, frustrated with what has been said. "Ophelia, I speak of this now because I know it must weigh on your mind. We have been careful not to let anyone know of the extent of our relationship, but were it discovered…" He stops, pausing and shaking his head. He turns to me, clasping my hands between his, his eyes intently locked on mine. "Ophelia, perhaps one day a wedding will occur at Elsinore that will unite us. But I cannot promise you when that day will come – marriage is not my most loved event as of right now—"

My heart feels as though it has leaped into my throat. "Is that some kind of proposal?"

He smile cautiously. "A promise?" he suggests.

"A promise for a proposal?"

He laughs. "If you so deeply desire to see it as such, yes –"

I nearly knock him off balance as I throw myself at him, clasping my hands around his neck and kissing him fervently. He draws back and strokes my hair with his fingers.

"I had to give you such," he says, "out of respect for your most impatient –" he kisses my cheek – "wonderful—" he kisses my other cheek – "faithful –" he kisses my lips – "love." There are signs of a mischievous smile in his eyes now. "I do not wish you to worry more than you have to."

I embrace him and gaze upward at the dormant branches of the willow tree.

"It seems spring will come again if you know where to look."


	16. Confidante

_XVI. Confidante _

I am attending to Gertrude in her apartments. She looks weary – the stress of reorganizing a kingdom is taking its toll on her, and she has many other concerns than King Claudius' coronation and their marriage.

"Ophelia, I have a request for you."

"Anything, my lady."

She beckons, and I sit beside her. "I have a great need to pretend I am another today," she says, taking my hand. "Let us imagine that we are but ordinary women enjoying each other's company without all the troubles of royalty weighing on my mind."

It would be very difficult to keep up with such a fantasy when surrounded by a queen's finery, but I play along. We discuss endless trivialities, ignoring any ties to the court. Style and jewels may be mentioned, as long as certain ladies' names are not given. These are the simple, unnamed rules of this game we have created.

After a while, we both grow quiet.

"I cannot pretend such a fiction is real," Gertrude says.

"It is pleasant, though," I offer.

"Yes," she sighs. "A pleasant fiction." She passes a hand across her face. "Regardless, I cannot ignore my troubles."

I purse my lips. "What bothers you, Gertrude?"

"What constantly bothers a mother?" Her tone is sharp. "My son. When you have children of your own, perhaps you will come to understand how aggravating their opinions can be. My actions still do displease him and I cannot fathom why—" She cuts herself off. "No… no. I lie to myself to say such a thing. I can fathom why."

I sit and remain quiet, inviting her to tell me. I am an ear she needs right now.

"Ophelia," she says, "I must ask that what passes between you and me here must not come to the attention of anyone else. Are my decisions incestuous? I cannot speak of this to Claudius: think of what that would do!" Her cheeks redden. "I have spoken to priests, but even they would not dare to advise me to walk away from the future king, not even before God. But the whispers of the court… the whispers! They all wonder and gossip and I must pretend to ignore them, pretend that I have done nothing—" She stops herself once again. "I have done nothing wrong. Is that not true, Ophelia?"

I swallow – my throat seems to be stuck. I do not want to anger her, but I want to be honest. Why do I find myself in these positions so frequently? Have I unwittingly become Ophelia the Confidant? I shake the idea from my mind as it proves distracting. I must answer Gertrude's question.

"You love him, my lady. I do not think you should be ashamed for that."

She smiles sadly at me.

"The court will gossip, as it always has," I continue. "Should you doubt yourself because of them?"

"It is not them," she says. "It is my son. I never meant to hurt him. He did so love his father."

"Then why do you not wait?"

"I cannot wait."

"Why?"

"It is… better this way." She breathes in sharply. "Ophelia, can you not convince my son that this is how it will be?"

"His opinion will forever remain his, not mine," I say. "I cannot mend the breach between you and your son—"

"I do think so, in blind faith," she says. "It is only when he speaks of you when his gloom is lifted. You can change his mind—"

"I cannot!" I insist. "Why do you think I can? I am a simple noblewoman. I have my own ideas and opinions, but I am not some great negotiator who can change the minds of men. This issue cannot be fixed by me. It will only be restored when the two of you decide to yourselves."

"He refuses to speak to me," she says plainly.

"There is nothing I can do about that. He makes his own decisions."

"I know he will listen to you!"

"Listen, yes, but I cannot give him orders!"

"Ophelia—"

I shake my head. "Please do not force me to choose between you, my lady."

Gertrude sighs. "I suppose I must not," she muses quietly. Her fingers twist around each other. "This is not how I wished my Hamlet's homecoming to be."

_I did not wish it either, my lady. _I do not voice the thoughts aloud.

"He barely speaks to me now," she says coldly, staring at her hands.

"Reach out to him, my lady," I say. "Go to him instead of waiting for him to come to you. If anything, it shows that you still love him and perhaps he will learn to forgive you for what he perceives to be a trespass." I look at her sadly. "If you wish for my opinion, my lady, I would have waited for your husband's state funeral to pass before you had your second marriage announced."

Gertrude bows her head in silence.


	17. Half Truths

_XVII. Half-Truths_

I have never attended a state funeral before. Though the old king was properly interred a month and a half ago, it is only now that all the preparations have been finalized for his "official" funeral. I do not know why it has taken so long – something to do with castle politics, the sort of thing that makes my head spin. For weeks much of the castle has been abuzz with activity, but finally the entire court dons their most subdued attire and joins with those who have come from far and wide to pay their final respects to Denmark's late monarch.

Elsinore is in a strange humour for much of the ceremony. While the priests speak long passages in Latin and choir boys sing joyful hymns of our great leader's passing to Heaven, most of us cannot help but feel that the mood does not reflect one of a funeral. The collective mind of the aristocracy is more focused on the upcoming wedding and coronation then saying farewell to an old king.

The nobles wear the black out of tradition, but the court's heart is golden and merry. I am certain that this is the one of the most light-hearted funerals I have ever attended, and that is thanks to the infectious attitude of the nobles.

The royal family is a sight to behold. King Claudius is grim faced as they lay his brother to his final rest. Does he feel satisfaction that he has inherited the throne, or is there remorse in that ambitious expression for the death of close kin? Queen Gertrude is pale and seemingly weak, a stark contrast to how she has been in previous days. I wonder whether she had taken my words about stalling the wedding announcement to heart and now she regrets having her intentions be known. Hamlet is like stone for the duration of the ceremony. He is as still as a statue, remaining unchanged, his expression unreadable or simply empty. Even when the king's final blessings are said, he does not react. When it is over, he quietly slips away, disappearing like a ghost into the wide, silent halls of Elsinore.

Why is it that we are compelled to celebrate after a funeral? I wish that there was a sombre mood here today; it is too contrasting to have such a merry band of people when we have just honoured (or attempted to honour – I would hate to know what King Hamlet thought of the court during his funeral) the dead. But no sombreness here – the food and drink has been brought out, music fills the air, and merrymaking fills the halls with laughter.

I am discontented by it, but I seem to be the only one. Even Gertrude and King Claudius (as far as I can tell from a distance) do not look as they did during the funeral. They are now as merry as the rest of the court.

I long to disappear, but my brother and my friends will not allow it. I am obliged to stay with them and dance and laugh until my feet fall off and my voice ceases to function.

As far as I can tell, the prince stays away from such celebrations.

For a while, I find Adelaide and Fernanda's light jokes amusing. Their attempts to make me laugh do force genuine smiles on my face and I find myself enjoying the celebrations. But eventually, I grow tired and I excused myself, longing to retreat to the silence of my quarters, even though it is still early in the evening.

When I arrive in my rooms – a difficult feat, as there are many who see me go and attempt to stop me – I throw myself on my bed and enjoy the peace and quiet for many long minutes. I can still hear the racket from below, but it is dulled somewhat as my quarters are high in the castle. It is pleasantly warm in my room; Catherine knows me well enough now that she kept the fire in my hearth going and lit candles about the place. I have all the light and warmth I need.

Adelaide and Fernanda will complain that I am being unsocial again… I am upset that I have disappointed them, but I needed to escape. Certain courtiers who have noticed the amount of time the prince and I spend in each other's company will no doubt gossip that we are together… perhaps this gossip will finally reach my father's and brother's ears… No good, no good! It is no good to think and ponder on it.

I rise from my bed and fetch a box that I keep hidden from the prying eyes of others. It amuses me still that I keep this box beneath my bed, like a young child who seeks a place for the treasures that she finds out in the wilderness. I used to do this in France, during my childhood. Flowers, pebbles – any memento of nature I found and liked eventually wound up in a box that I then stored under my bed. Laertes was the only one who knew of my hiding place, even though it was not particularly inventive.

This box is plain wood and rather unappealing to look at, but it has a silver lock and a matching key that I keep hidden within my desk. Inside, I have stored every letter I have ever received from Hamlet. Like nature's treasures I discovered and sought to keep hidden in my childhood, I have a special place for the gifts of my adulthood.

I am not sure why I wish to re-read the letters now, but nevertheless, I retrieve my box and its key and sit on my bed. There was a time last year when I would have traded every letter for the man who wrote them. Now I find myself dearly missing the correspondence. We have not shared letters since I gave him the incomplete letter I wrote the day his father died. We have both been too preoccupied in these long weeks to set words to paper, but I miss it still. By re-reading these letters, I warm my heart as I remember.

I read through each one, fingering the rough parchment, admiring the elegant script in which they are written and, of course, sinking within the words on the page. They are my words, my letters, gifts to me. He could have given me jewels and trinkets as symbols of his love, but I much prefer these letters. It is so much more… intimate.

I am near the end of my letters when my door suddenly flies open, startling me. The letter flies out of my hand and into a near-by candle. It smokes and goes up in flame. I cry out and fling myself out of bed, rushing to pick it up, but it flutters to the floor, where it insists on bursting into a mess of ash and charred parchment. I stomp the flames out with my shoe and the letter crumbles, burnt beyond recognition.

I breathe in sharply, my eyes stinging. I know it is silly to mourn the loss of a letter, but I am furious nonetheless. I look up to see which of my family members saw fit to charge into my room without knocking first.

It is, of course, my brother. Sometimes he does not think before he acts. I glare at him, indicating the pile of ash on the floor, and he bows his head passively.

"Forgive me, Sister," he says. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Indeed." I sigh, fully irritated. I walk to my bed; my other letters have strewn all over the cover when I knocked over the box during my flight to save the burnt parchment. I begin to collect them and stuff them back into the box before more of them accidentally catch fire.

Laertes comes forward and attempts to help but, but I brush him off.

"No help is necessary," I say, my tone a bit rude.

"All right," he says, spreading his hands apologetically. He catches sight of one of the unfolded letters and frowns. "What are these frivolities?" he asks, moving to pick one of them up.

I snatch the letter away and glare at him. "They are not frivolities, they are letters."

"To you from whom?"

"It is not your business, Laertes."

"Nothing seems to be my business these days," he says flatly.

"It is pure nonsense and nothing that should concern you," I snap.

He falls silent and watches as I shove the rest of my letters into my box and put it away.

"Still under the bed, Ophelia?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "You never change."

"And what is it to you?"

He glares at me. "You are clearly affronted today."

"I am… annoyed."

His expression does not change. Stubborn boy. "Why?"

"I am annoyed at you," I clarify.

"I apologize," he says shortly.

"I came here for some privacy and some quiet, Laertes," I say, "and the last thing I wanted was to have you come flying through my door, unasked and uninvited! We are not children anymore. We do not play. We… have polite conversation like proper adults and… and when I wish to be alone, I will be alone. I am not as social as some of my friends, and frankly I have a headache."

We glare at each other, in a way only siblings can. Finally, he relents, shaking his head and laughing hollowly. "I do believe I've never heard such anger from you before, Ophelia."

"As I said—" I fold my arms – "I am annoyed. Specifically at you. I am not a perfect lady every moment of every day, as some would have you believe." I sigh. "What is it that you want, Laertes?"

"I won't lie, Ophelia," he says. "I came to see if you were where you said you would be."

I blink, confused. "What?"

Laertes sits down on a chair, looking quite uncomfortable. He seems to be puzzling over something troublesome in his mind. "Gossip and rumours abound as they always do," he says heavily, "and I hate to have to suspect my own sister. Father—"

"Oh." My fingers clench. I know exactly what has happened. This is yet another episode of my brother _and_ my father showing their protectiveness. "I see. You heard some rumour or strand of gossip that I have… have some lover somewhere and when I left the festivities below, I disappeared to consort with that same lover." I am trying very hard to control the blush on my cheeks. Laertes will never know of it, but when I left the grand hall, part of me had thought of seeking the prince out.

There is a very uncomfortable knot growing in the pit of my stomach. I hate lying, and at times it seems that all I have done since I came to Elsinore is hide truths and tell half-truths and sometimes complete lies in order to disguise my own actions. But no one – _no one_ – can know the truth of my relationship with Hamlet. By now, they suspect, but there is no truth yet. They cannot know, especially not my father or my brother, the extent to which we have pursued our relationship, at least not until the promise he made me by the willow tree comes to pass.

And so I must lie to the one person I wish I could always trust.

"You decided to verify that these rumours were not true," I continue, "because even though you hoped they were not true, part of you doubted –"

"They say that you are involved with the prince," Laertes interrupts. "That changes everything."

"I do not see how."

"Ophelia, how can you be so naïve?" He looks astonished. "Of course it changes everything! Any woman in this court would give anything for a chance to court the heir to the throne!"

"Well, perhaps I am that naïve," I retort.

Laertes frowns. "I had my suspicions, Ophelia. Do not blame me, there is usually some grain of truth in all the wildfire of gossip, and I have seen you with the prince with my own eyes. As has father." He looks at me directly, emphasizing the last words.

I purse my lips. "Father asked you to do this, did he not?" I ask quietly.

"Ophelia—"

"Did he not?"

Laertes' shoulders sag. "He did. He suspects. He more than suspects."

"So he sent you to spy on me?"

He shrugs. "You know our father."

"Meddlesome Father," I mutter under my breath. I am affronted that Father feels the need to send my own brother to _spy_ on me. I eye Laertes carefully. "You say you saw the prince and I together several times." I grow cold. "How long?"

"Since I arrived."

I force myself to breath slowly. "And?"

"I know there is something going on," he says. "Would you not tell me, Sister. As family?"

Can I lie? Am I absolutely certain I can lie?

"It is nothing—"

"Ophelia!" His look tells me he is intent on getting to the truth of the matter.

I brush a loose lock of hair out of my eyes. "The prince and I…" I falter. "We are friends," I begin again. "Good friends. That is… most of it. I… I have reason to believe… more than reason… that he may…" I pause, biting my lip. What to say?

The words flow from my lips unexpectedly.

"I have reason to believe that he may desire something more."

Once it is said, I feel comfortable manoeuvring within the boundaries of my lie. It is not a full lie… it is a half-truth. They say that the best lies are bound up in parts of truth. Laertes will not know the difference.

I can still feel the uncomfortable knot in the pit of my stomach.

"Those letters are all from him." It is not so much a question as a statement.

I nod.

"Oh, God." Laertes passes a hand across his face.

"What?" I ask.

He stands up and looks at me sympathetically. "Please be careful, Ophelia," he says. "It may be that your heart will get broken. But Father will hear of this – as he must—"

"And will you cease to spy on me?"

His expression flattens. "I never wanted to spy on you. It was for the best."

"I do not need to have my actions monitored!"

"You are young, Ophelia," he says. "Never forget that. The world of Elsinore Castle itself is a large and dangerous place and I would hate to lose you to it."

I gesture at him to leave my room. "Have no fear, Brother," I say. "I have a good sense of direction."

"I can only hope."

With that, he is gone and I am alone again.

I curl up on my bed, listening to the fire crackle in my hearth. Why do I feel so horrible now? Is it because I discovered that Laertes has been spying on me? It is not unlike Father to be the overprotective parent. I know that he was only doing what he thought was best. Part of me wants to feel betrayed by my father and brother's decisions, but I cannot.

They love me, and they only did it to protect me.

So why does this guilt gnaw away at the pit of my stomach?

I do not need their protection. Instead, I must protect myself and my feelings for the prince from them.

There is something that does not ring right about that realization. I do not like it.


	18. Selfish

_XVIII. Selfish _

We have managed to steal a few precious moments away from the commotion of the rest of the castle. It is the day after the state funeral, and most of the aristocracy is acting as though it never occurred. What is in the past is in the past, or so they say. I suspect that these words could be attributed to King Claudius, who no doubt never wanted his brother's state funeral to overshadow his coronation and wedding and did everything in his power to prevent it from doing just that.

I am unusually quiet today, and I have not said much. My thoughts preoccupy me more than they normally do. So much is my preoccupation that it prompts a teasing statement of "You look even more melancholy than I" from Hamlet. I laugh, but it is not whole-hearted as I am distracted.

Guilt is a strange emotion. It sits at the back of your mind, gnawing away at you while you try your best to ignore it, until, finally, you cannot bear it any longer. I feel guilt – I have betrayed my own family's trust, and they do not know it. Never before have I had to lie to my brother; never have I had to carefully step around my father. Elsinore has changed all that. This castle has changed me in profound ways, and I do not like the person I am becoming – a woman who must tells falsehoods and pretend to be someone she is not, all for the sake of love. I do not like what love is doing to my family; I can already feel the effects of the breach between myself and Laertes.

I do not wish to have such a breach. I know the royal family and how torn apart they have become. They do not speak to each other; they lie and deceive and then turn around and stab each other with the truth. Despite my wish for things to be different, there is stubborn refusal. Hamlet is becoming a stranger in his own country, and Gertrude barely knows her son.

I do not wish for that to happen to me with my own family.

"I would suggest avoiding comparisons," Hamlet says after I muse my thoughts to him. "My family is, after all, of its own kind." He speaks the last phrase coldly. Tomorrow is the dual celebration of coronation and wedding, and everything about Elsinore right now continually reminds us of it.

"I did not mean to compare," I say. "I only meant… I love my father and my brother. I do not want to be separated from them by something that brings me joy! I should be happy, but I—"

"You discovered they were spying on you. Palace intrigue never brought happiness to the victims of watchful eyes. I should know."

"They only meant it for the better."

"The better of what?" He locks eyes with me, his expression intense. "Better for you? What if you had come to me, and we were discovered? Your father would not let such a relationship stand, he would not want his beloved, virtuous daughter shamed. Do you think he would let this continue?"

"I do not know."

"No," he says firmly. "The answer is 'no', and you know it. Do not play naïve."

"I am tired of secrets and lies."

"As am I, but that is the way of the court. Everyone has secrets, everyone tells lies. Everyone leads a double life of some kind or another. And then there are those who enjoy unravelling the threads to discover them." He pauses, looking at me cautiously, trying to gage my reaction. "Like your father."

"What are you trying to accuse my father of?" I say flatly.

"Merely an observation," he says. "Your father is meddlesome."

"I know. He does not mean to—"

"He does mean to! There is nothing that occurs in this castle that your father does not wish to know of. Surely your brother's actions are examples of that, pure and simple."

"There is nothing pure and simple about this," I return. "You have… I have… agh!" I have a great urge to hit something, unladylike though that may be. "I remain caught up in lies, and will remain so until your promise comes true."

"Ah." He observes me warily.

"I do not want to continue hiding who I am from my own family."

"You wish to confirm your father's suspicions?"

"No!" I can feel colour rising to my cheeks. "Yes. Oh, I do not know… My lord, we are as good as promised to each other. Why cannot we—"

"No."

"No?" I arch an eyebrow. "You made me a promise."

"A promise made will be a promise kept," he answers, "but I did not say _when."_

"Why can it not be now?"

"Why must it be now? Because of your own whims?"

"Is it because of _your_ own whims that it will not be now?" I snap back, my temper flaring. "Is it because you are furious at your mother's marriage that you have decided to ignore the entire union itself?"

He glares at me coldly. "I do not need my own opinions spouted back at me in such a way."

"I do not agree with you, my lord."

"That much is evident."

"Marriage is sacred and should be honoured," I say hotly, "not ignored!"

"_You_ wish it not to be ignored," he points out furiously.

"Everyone in this world does not ignore it," I retort. "Only you do. A single man's opinion, prince though he may be, does not change social tides."

"Perhaps it can!"

"You would sacrifice my good name simply to make a statement?"

He rolls his eyes. "And once again, it returns to you and what you want."

I glare at him, and I can feel a familiar prickle behind my eyes. Tears will come now, whether I bid them to or not. "I will not be a virgin on my wedding night," I say quietly. "In the eyes of most, that is a sin."

"And what of in your eyes – and _not_ theirs?"

I frown. I have lived with the assumption for a year now that some day I will be married to him. With that assumption, I did anything I pleased. Was it foolish of me to believe so? Was it wrong of me to go to him without the sanctity of marriage vows? I turn my face away so he will not see the tears falling liberally down my cheeks.

"You… you would not marry me?"

He sighs – he hates seeing me cry. He walks to me, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. "Ophelia—"

I move away abruptly and face him. "You would have had me commit a sin for nothing?"

"Is there not life beyond marriage?" he says. "Is love a sin?"

I shake my head. "No." The word catches in my throat.

"Is that what you truly believe?"

I nod, rubbing tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Yes."

"Then you have not sinned," he says simply.

"I am yours alone," I murmur. "If we be not wed—"

"Then nothing."

I cannot stop the tears now. They cling to my eyelashes, blurring my vision. "Is it selfish of me to want a material symbol of what I feel for you?" I say, almost voiceless.

"Is it selfish of me to not want to be bound by the laws of tradition?" he says softly.

I cannot help a hollow laugh. "What fools we are," I say. "Selfish, selfish fools brought to an impasse."

He looks at me sadly. "All humankind is selfish, one way or another."

"Why must it be so?"

He embraces me gently, an apology in his touch. "The world is an unfair place where we cannot always receive what we want."

"Then today I hate the world."

He shakes his head. "Dear Ophelia, you are turning into me. Perhaps I am a poor influence on you."

"No," I say softly. "Perhaps you should be the one I hate, for refusing my one request that would save me much pain and guilt. But I cannot bring myself to do so." I brush my hand beneath my eyes again, wiping away my final tears. "All roses come with thorns. Love, it seems, does not come without a price."


	19. Memory

_XIX. Memory_

I rise early, as it does take a lengthy amount of time to prepare oneself to attend both a coronation and a wedding. Catherine has kept the hearth well-attended to during the night, but even still the floor is cold as I slip out of bed. I am about to call for her when I noticed a folded sheet of parchment lying on my desk. I pick it up and unfold it, already knowing who exactly it is from without even needing to read the signature.

_To the celestial and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia.__ In her excellent white bosom, these, etc:__  
_

_Doubt thou the stars are fire;  
__Doubt that the sun doth move; __  
Doubt truth to be a liar;  
But never doubt I love. _

_O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans: but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. _

_Thine evermore most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him.  
Hamlet. _

My heart has leaped into my throat. I set down the letter. It has been a long time since he has written to me, and even longer still since he has used such poetic verse. Over our long correspondence, we became less formal and more direct. These words and verses here are a call back on my memory, back to long ago when he addressed me formally, archaically, beautifully… and I stayed with him and read what he wrote and our love blossomed over summer months.

What does he mean by this? An apology for his words yesterday? Doubt thou, he writes… Do I doubt? I have not even asked myself this, but now it faces me plainly. With his recent refusal to consider marriage, do I doubt that he still loves me?

_Oh, my dear Hamlet._ I told him once that I would never cease to love him, not for anything. Our impasse will one day be solved. I must be patient… even though I have advocated that love is anything but.

I place the letter within my box and safely store it away. I should write him a reply – but I cannot do so now. There is not enough time. When a coronation and a wedding occur, there is little time for anything else.

I call Catherine to me and begin my preparations for the day. I am distracted in these early morning hours, my thoughts ever returning to our argument yesterday and the letter I have received. Catharine is a shy girl, but on occasion she does provide wonderful conversation. However, today she notes my mood and chooses to remain silent, for which I am grateful. As she dresses my hair, I wish to be alone with my thoughts to mull over the decisions I have ahead of me in future days.

The guilt for lying to my brother and father still irks me, and I cannot rid myself of it. However, I also cannot bring myself to tell them the full truth. I doubt I ever will. Indecisive wretch! My family or my lover… I will seek to choose where my heart goes, even though the guilt of my betrayal will follow me. I so desperately wish they could know the truth and thus I would be saved from my guilt, but it would only be worse if Father knew.

No, I convince myself, Father must not know. The way things are now is for the best.

Who am I to choose what is for the best? These thoughts are beginning to hurt my head. I abandon them, seeking out my memories of happier days, without all this worry and dread. The world seemed perfect that summer. Why can it not return to those times?

_The world is an unfair place,_ he told me.

Oh how I know it is. How I know…

When Catharine finishes, I am free to attend to my own duties. Ladies-in-waiting all have their part to play in helping the queen ready for her own wedding. As I am to understand it, she and King Claudius are to be married and he is to be crowned at the same time. It shall be a very extravagant affair.

I wish I could pay more attention today, but my thoughts do wander back to my own problems and desires. Selfish, foolish girl that I am. Adelaide and Fernanda keep asking me if I am troubled by something, but I must continually say no. It is not as if they could help me.

It seems as though Elsinore has had a surplus of visitors. There are more people here than there were for the state funeral. Everyone wishes to see the coronation of a king and his wedding. For it to happen on the same day is surely an event to behold.

The days in my memories were a time to behold. Why am I so morose? Adelaide and Fernanda are asking me that very same question. I should be happy, they say. Silently, I agree with them. I should be happy for Gertrude, at the very least, who very much looks like a young bride even though this is her second wedding.

I tell myself to be joyful under my breath, hoping that it will work. I fear that it will not.

I attend the event in a daze. Had someone noticed, they may have thought me to be ill. However, no one notices anyone else when there is a wedding. For that, I am grateful. I am not ill, I am… what? I cannot find the answer.

My eyes seek out Hamlet, who will be easy to spot against this array of bright colour when he still dresses in black. I see him, but he does not look at me. He watches, stony-faced, as his mother arrives is a flurry of gold and colour, and is wed to his uncle. There is a storm of joyous applause as Denmark welcomes its new royal couple and King Claudius is officially crowned monarch.

The atmosphere is triumphant, but I cannot join in. My ears do not want to function this day, and everything is a blur of colour. I sit as though frozen, wondering what is to become of this country, what is to become of us… what is to become of me. Will I rise, and be wedded to my own love and become royalty myself? Or will I fall, shamed with what I have done?

The future is uncertain, now more than ever. I raise my hands and join the storm of applause, as a smiling King Claudius and Queen Gertrude begin to address the crowd of joyous courtiers from their thrones.

How long can this happiness last? Or will something bring it all crashing down?

I can still see Hamlet, standing to the side, his dark attire a black spot in this sea of colour. He observes the court, his expression impassive. I bow my head in silence. I will always have questions to which I will never receive answers.

_fin_

_

* * *

_

_**Hamlet's letter to Ophelia is from .116-124 of the play. **_

**Thank you so much to everyone for reading! And to those of you who leave comments, thanks for taking the time to do so! It does mean a lot to me. I'm glad if you came through to the end and enjoyed the story, even moreso if you started with the first book, _To Thine Own Self_. I'll be finishing the trilogy sometime over the course of the next three months (hopefully); but you can be guaranteed that the third book, _All My Sins Remembered, _will be covering the events of the play itself, all the way up to Ophelia's tragic end.**

**Once again, thanks for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed! You all are awesome!**

**~Idri  
**


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